Ancestral Steele
by Madeleine Gilbert
Summary: S5; Steele Inseparable series, Pt 3. Laura begins to fear she's made a terrible mistake in marrying Remington when they discover the truth about his family history.
1. Prologue

STEELE INSEPARABLE, PART III: Ancestral Steele

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: S5 continuation; third in a series. Laura begins to fear she's made a terrible mistake in marrying Remington when they discover the truth about his family history.

SEQUEL TO: Part I, "Steele in Perspective'; Part II, "Steele-In-Law"

DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with _Remington Steele_, its producers, its actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network, or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.

Additional characters from outside the RS canon, apart from historic personages, are fictional and created by the author. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Exceptions are characters in Menton, which are drawn from the author's personal genealogy; the author requests the indulgence of fellow descendants of the Sedilot de Montreuil (Sedlow), Trottier de Beaubien, Cuillerier and Ludwig families.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A different twist on the RS "fear of abandonment" theme, names, identity and the nature of love, along with a possible explanation as to how Remington came by his various talents.

And, in case the number of relatives named "John" in the Holt/Garland/Gale clan seems far-fetched, it's modeled on a real-life family: my own.

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PROLOGUE

(Part 1)

Laura Steele, the woman who rarely cried, watched from the airliner window for the first glimpse of home.

Los Angeles. Home. But where, exactly, in Los Angeles was that? When she got off the plane, where should she go?

Not to the loft in the artists' district, her refuge the last time her life exploded around her. It wasn't hers anymore, except by the strictest of legal definitions. She and her husband, Remington, had found a buyer for it the week before their second wedding. The buyer's occupation had been a source of private amusement for them: she was a moderately successful novelist and would-be screenwriter, which they hoped would drive one of Laura's old neighbors—Nestor Bartholomew, who only pretended to be a writer--crazy. Laura supposed that there was still a chance she could get the loft back, if she really wanted it. After all, they hadn't been through the final closing yet. Rip up the contract, return the deposit and earnest money, undo all the complicated, painstaking arrangements they'd made. The prospect engendered nothing in her but a deep weariness.

A chiming sound diverted her attention towards the front of the plane. The 'fasten seatbelts' light had come on. Instead of obeying it, she loosened the strap around her waist and moved to the empty window seat beside her. It was supposed to be, would have been, Remington's, if he had returned with her from Menton to Los Angeles.

She admonished herself silently not to twist the facts. Well, then: she would rephrase the statement.

Her husband would've been in that window seat if she hadn't left him in Menton.

The house in Windsor Square. She could go there. Though it had been an extravagant, unexpected legacy to Remington from his friend, the former TV star Patsy Vance, it partly belonged to Laura, too. But, no, she remembered, she couldn't go there. It was without curtains and furniture, and full of paint fumes, ladders and drop cloths. Even if that weren't the case, it was the last thing she could imagine, walking up to the front door without him, inserting the key in the lock, stepping inside. She had never made a single visit to the house alone. Tonight was not the time to begin.

Tarzana, the Valley. Gratefully she hugged the image to her. Her sister and her sister's husband, Frances and Donald; support, sympathy and comfort. But after a moment, she had to push it away. The coin that would be required in exchange for temporary shelter was Frances' unsolicited advice and well-meaning, but relentless, questions. Since she couldn't answer the questions or use the advice, it was a price Laura wasn't prepared to pay.

That left only the Rossmore apartment. At the very idea, pain knifed through her, so intense that she had to wrap her arms around her midsection to hold it in. It was at Rossmore that they'd spent the all-too-brief weeks of their married life. It was the scene of their long courtship--funny that she could finally admit that was what it was--and the site of their second wedding night. Remington had once said that everything in it reminded him of her. She knew that the opposite would be true as well: everything in it, down to the most insignificant detail, would remind her of him.

His past. His damned past. She'd known all along that something would emerge from it that, no matter how much she loved him, they wouldn't be able to work out.

The worst of it was that she was couldn't cry. Her throat had been raw for hours, her head throbbing with unshed tears. Both were signs that her old aptitude for self-control was operating as efficiently as ever. It had served her well over the years. Just now, though, she would have surrendered her cherished control without a second thought, if doing so would provide a little relief.

She was longing for him. It was that simple. Physically, emotionally, every way. The not-quite-imperceptible pressure of his hand riding at the small of her back. The tenor music of his voice. His irrepressible sense of humor, that perfect counterweight to her own tendency towards the overly serious. His sleeping presence in the seat next to her, where he ought to have been, his long body folded sideways, facing her, his head resting on her shoulder…

Enough! She clenched her hands into fists in an effort to get a hold of herself. Could she possibly be more ridiculous? They'd barely been apart twenty hours--they'd only been married two months! Yet she, who had always made it a matter of pride not to need anyone, was already wondering how on earth she could face the prospect of living without Remington at her side.

How ironic that she was realizing the difficulty now, when in all likelihood it was too late for them.

Her eyes were burning again; the plane was beginning its final descent into Los Angeles. She rested her forehead against the window and gazed unseeingly at the city vista coming into focus below her.

And tried to make plans for surviving the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, while she set about the task of putting off the life of the happily married Mrs. Steele, and resuming that of the solitary Miss Holt.

(Part 2)

At three thirty in the morning, the quiet summer waters of Menton harbor rippled beneath the floodlights that were strung around it at regular intervals. Ranks of sailboats, which had earlier crowded the harbor like a flock of brilliant tropical birds, were moored now. Even the lights of the handful of pleasure craft anchored offshore--the yachts and large cruisers--were completely extinguished. Passengers and crews were below deck, no doubt, sleeping the sleep of the just.

From the terrace of a hillside villa north of town, Remington Steele pondered how different Menton was from other cities of the Riviera, the ones he knew so much better. Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo: how brightly illuminated they would be, despite the late hour! The bustle and congestion diminished, yes, but the streets still crackling with energy, bars and restaurants open and doing a brisk business. Not like this drowsy Italianate village, where the only traffic, even in July, was the occasional car wending its way homeward, the only sound the tolling of the church bell in le Vieux Menton, the old town. No wonder some writer had once dismissed it as an ideal haven for retired English spinsters.

Yet, for the first time since he and Laura had arrived, he could understand why Daniel had retreated here from Nice two years ago. Menton would have been a welcome refuge from a pace grown too exhausting for a man in precarious health. Its peace must have helped smooth, to some extent, the transition from vigorous middle life to sick old age, from embracing every moment with gusto to accepting death's inevitability.

What a shame it was that he, Remington, couldn't stay long enough for it to soothe the grief and fury that were seething in him.

Had been seething since two mornings ago, when Laura told him she was leaving. Since she had, in fact, left him.

How long had he been out here? Three hours? Four? He had lost track of the time, even though the bell in le Vieux Menton had struck every hour without fail. The terrace had seemed the best alternative to bed, where he did nothing but toss and turn. It had been his haven for the past two nights. A joke on him, that. The man who used to be able to sleep anywhere, mostly because there had been no other choice, had discovered a sudden inability to sleep alone.

He'd always been afraid of looking too deeply into the past. He'd been still more afraid of Laura doing so. He'd known all along that something would emerge that they wouldn't be able to work out, no matter how much he loved her.

A drink sat on the table beside him, untouched, the ice in it long since melted. It had been the same earlier in the day, when he had descended the steep staircase from the villa to the road that led to town in search of a quiet café. There he had ordered a bottle of Chartreuse, his liquor of choice in the days when he'd operated the Riviera alternately as Jean Murrell, smuggler, or Paul Fabrini, jewel thief. But after a while, he had tossed a few spare bills to the _serveur_ and departed, leaving the full bottle behind. Better the solace that would come from hours of walking--or at least the physical exhaustion. Alcohol had never been a solution for him.

As it turned out, neither was the exercise. No amount of it could quell his anger. God knew, Laura had provoked him often enough in the past. Mad enough to hit her with a bataka! Mad enough to turn on his heel and storm off at the Freidlich Spa! Mad enough to rent a hooker to pose as his bride! But never like this. He could quite easily have seized her by the shoulders the other morning and shaken her into changing her mind. Perhaps he should have. It couldn't have backfired more miserably than the strategies he'd attempted: first to kiss her back to her senses; then to cajole her; finally, in a desperate form of reverse psychology, to roar out ultimatums.

It was her bloody composure, the collected, dispassionate way in which she had broken the news that she was leaving, that had set him off. She could walk away from five years together without blinking an eye, it seemed. Meanwhile, here he was, still reeling as if from a physical blow, no longer able to summon the props that used to sustain him in a catastrophe. The past master of the art of creating a new life out of thin air, on the spur of the moment, was woefully out of practice.

A pity, really. It would've been of immeasurable help tomorrow--or, rather, later this morning--in London, where he was due at the office of Daniel's solicitor to receive the rest of his inheritance…and decide on a new direction for his future.

Was it the end of his life as Remington Steele? Could he piece together a new identity out of his heritage, such as it was, and assume it?

More important, did any of it matter, if Laura was gone for good?

He strongly suspected that he already knew the answer to that.

The clock in le Vieux Menton was sounding the hour. This time he registered it. Five. His flight from Nice was scheduled for seven thirty, his meeting with Alix Edwards for ten.

For a moment he sat motionless, face buried in his hands. Then he rose heavily and went to see how much he could salvage from the pitiful wreck he knew himself to be.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The previous week had begun with Laura sitting beside Remington in a conference room at the law offices of Ursitti, Kaskal, & Prime, PC. Remington was steadily working his way through the documents that represented the beginning of their life together in the Windsor Square house; Laura was providing moral support.

That was what she had assumed she would be doing before they arrived. At the moment, she wasn't so sure. Far from being nervous about borrowing thousands and thousands of dollars, as well as becoming the owner of a valuable home in one of the best neighborhoods in downtown Los Angeles, he was as unflappable as ever. No one could have guessed that it was the first time in his life he'd possessed anything much beyond the clothes he stood up in--and, sometimes, not even those.

She watched him as he scrawled his name over and over. If he had misgivings, they weren't affecting his penmanship. He wrote in the bold, vertical, looping hand which, over the past five years, the world had accepted at face value as the signature of the head of Remington Steele Investigations. It was as different from her gracefully curved script as it was possible to be. The fact that no one had ever commented on it when his version of Steele's signature replaced hers was the perfect testimony to people's inattention to small details.

Lifting his head, he caught her gaze on him, and answered it with a wink. No, he wasn't troubled by any nagging doubts. A risk-taker, an optimist, a firm believer that the future would take care of itself: that was her Remington.

Her Remington.

Was it really only two months since she had upbraided from outside the bars of a jail cell in Las Hadas, Mexico, for not having a name she could call him by when disaster struck? How long ago it seemed! It was an episode--and an attitude--that belonged to another life. Certainly in some ways she had been a different Laura, one who couldn't merge him yet with the image she'd first created of Remington Steele. Then again, she was also the Laura who had been blind-sided two days earlier by his attempt to wed Clarissa the Hooker, and by how far he had regressed into his old shady, conniving ways in order to avoid deportation by United States Immigration.

Their honeymoon in Ireland had been the turning point, as it was for so much between them. There, without even noticing it, she had begun to call him 'Remington'. He had answered to it just as matter-of-factly. In London he had corrected her response to his marriage proposal, replacing an old alias of his own with the name she'd given him. Later, at the restaurant where they'd celebrated, he had confessed that not only was Steele the person he wanted to be, but that the role was no longer a masquerade to him. It had become his real life.

She had needed a final reassurance, though. Lying in his arms after they'd gone to bed, she had asked, "What about Harry?"

"What about it?"

"Are you sure you want to give it up? After all, it was Daniel's name for you. Using it might be a way for you to remember him. We could cook up a story about how it's a middle name. Or it's what I could call you when we're alone, if that's what you want." She looked up and caught the twinkle in his eye. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's just--well, I've no personal attachment to 'Harry', really. Perhaps if I told you where it came from, you'd understand." He paused. "It's the name of the character William Holden played in _The Bridges at Toko Ri_."

She burst out laughing. "I might have known."

"Yes, I was rather enamored for a time, as a lad, of films depicting granite-jawed, steely-eyed American heroes struggling to maintain their honor in the midst of adversity. Ah, the 50's! The heyday of the conflicted, yet stalwart, leading man, Holden and Peck, Douglas and Lancaster! All those war pictures and westerns: _Twelve O'Clock High…The Horse Soldiers_…_Only the Valiant…The Big Sky…_Very attractive to a solitary boy making his way in a hostile world, as you might imagine." His smile faded. "Apart from the fact that the boy who chose the name was loved by Daniel, there's no reason to keep it alive. It was the name of a pickpocket, Laura, a gentleman thief, a con artist, baggage I'd prefer not to carry into our married life. Best simply to lay it to rest for good."

They had. By now, it was hard to believe that she'd ever wondered about it. He was Remington to her, fully and constantly, in every way that counted. Not that she'd altogether given up the use of his surname. She still called him 'Mr. Steele' in their ongoing flow of witty banter, just as she had become 'Mrs. Steele' where she was once 'Miss Holt.' For his part, 'darling' had begun to creep into his conversation in social situations, though she'd noticed he never said it in private; there the endearment was increasingly 'my love' or some variation of it. Of course, there was always the way he said her given name, an endearment in its own right, derived from that softness on the 'r' of the second syllable--

"Laura?"

Startled back into the present, she blinked. "Huh?'

He was holding out the pen. "Your turn."

She drew a sheaf of paper towards her. "What exactly am I signing?"

"The title, Mrs. Steele," said the attorney, Mike Ursitti. "You'll be holding it jointly with your husband, as we discussed. The house will be in both your names."

She affixed her 'Laura E. Steele' in the places indicated--no messing around with the Holt-Steele hyphenate nonsense, as she had in the initial days of their pseudo-fake marriage--and surrendered the lot to the lawyer. She and Remington watched in expectation while Ursitti and his paralegal conferred one last time.

Apparently everything was in order. Ursitti rose and shook hands with them both. "Congratulations. It's all yours."

Out in the Auburn, Remington made a ceremony of presenting her with one set of keys and attaching the other to his fob. "Another milestone in the Steele family history," he said. "A memory to add to our growing store. That magical night in Ireland…the morning after, when we first declared our devotion…our engagement, surprising each other with the sapphires -"

She interrupted his soliloquy. "It would be smarter to get a locksmith over there first thing. You never know who might've had their hands on these keys."

"Laura, must you always give practical concerns priority over romantic ones?"

"Someone has to keep a level head around here, if we don't want lock, stock and barrel stolen out from under us someday."

"At least give us a chance to savor the moment first."

Dark eyes sparkling into his blue ones, she smiled up at him. "You know how much I enjoy the way we savor a moment," she said. Her voice held the throaty intonation he always found irresistible.

He leaned in to her, dipping his head a little in invitation as she moved to answer his kiss. It didn't take long before their arms were going around one another in an even closer embrace.

Laura was the one to break away, though with obvious reluctance. "Would it be a sign that my priorities have improved if I said all I want right now is to get you alone to celebrate?"

"Indeed it would, my love. A vast improvement." He turned the key in the Auburn's ignition; the engine roared to life. "And if Kevin weren't waiting for us to size up our redoubtable trio, I'd demand we explore exactly what that means. However, business before pleasure, eh? Not only is it our personal motto, it's the agency's, as well."

The Steeles were posing as counselors in an investment firm to flush out which, if any, of the firm's legitimate partners had been sabotaging transactions and subsequently wooing disgruntled clients for themselves. The case had required time and preparation that was out of the ordinary, to the extent of testing for and obtaining real industry credentials. A week ago they'd put in their first appearance at Demerest & Associates' Beverly Hills office, ostensibly to interview for positions, but really to lay the groundwork for their cover. Today they were to meet the three likeliest suspects at a lunch where 'John Case' and 'Linda Seton' would be welcomed as brand new colleagues.

They found Kevin Cox, the manager of the Beverly Hills branch, waiting with two other men and a woman at the designated restaurant. "John, Linda. Good to see you." As the Steeles seated themselves, he added, "Let me introduce you to our three top brokers. Susan Farber…Paul Kozemchak…Nehri Dhillon. John Case and Linda Seton."

There were nods around the table, rather than handshakes, and none of the men rose in deference to Laura--an omission that caused Remington, the inveterate gentleman, to frown in disapproval. Nehri Dhillon beckoned to a nearby waiter. "You'll join us in a drink, Mr. Case?"

"I make it a point never to imbibe during working hours. More reassuring to clients, I've found. But perhaps Ms. Seton would like to order. Linda?"

"I'll stick with water, thanks."

"Not many brokers I know would copy you, Case," said Kozemchak. He was younger than the other two, about forty, thin and restless.

"Maybe they're not as committed to success as John and I," said Laura.

While Kozemchak bobbed his head at her as if to say, 'touché', Cox said, "John and Linda have built a hell of a business around Anaheim and Santa Ana, and they're ready to expand their territory westward as part of our team."

"I didn't know Jim had his sights set on expansion," said Dhillon. Though his English was perfect, his speech still held the cadence of India, and his heavy-lidded dark eyes had a peculiar opacity.

"Jim's always looking out for the future, Nehri," Cox replied.

A waiter arrived to take their orders; in the interval, the group suspended the conversation, though everyone continued surreptitiously to size everyone else up. Remington and Laura were working hard to suppress that way they had of communicating without speech, the frequent glances they would trade to register one another's impressions of people and situations. No sense exciting suspicion that their relationship was closer than their cover story indicated.

It was a good thing, because Farber, a hard-faced, stylish woman in her early sixties, seemed to have singled out Laura for special scrutiny. "How nice that Mr. Case is bringing along his sales assistant. It's always good for maintaining continuity and consistency, that experienced administrative support."

"So it would be, if we had it," said Remington. "As it happens, we're without an assistant just now. Would you care to recommend someone, Ms. Farber?"

Farber glanced from Remington to Laura. "Sorry, I just assumed." Neither her tone nor her expression was apologetic. "Not many women make it to full-fledged broker at your age."

"I'm what's known as an early bloomer," Laura said.

"A veritable prodigy," Remington agreed. "Just so there's no mistake from the start: Linda and I are equal partners in this business. Where she can't help you, I can, and vice versa."

"And how's that working for you?" Kozemchak asked.

"Fine so far," Laura replied. Was there really a shade of the unpleasant about him, or did she think so because they were unfavorably disposed towards him to begin with?

"How about what it means in day to day terms?" Cox asked.

"John handles overall strategizing, I'm client relations, and we both advise our clients on an individual basis." Laura looked directly at Kozemchak, a challenge in her eyes. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

He responded with a sardonic smile. "That about covers it for now."

The waiter returned with their meal, and there was a temporary lull during which the conversation downshifted into casual chatter. As soon as napkins were spread over laps, water glasses refilled, and lunch was underway, business talk resumed.

Dhillon studied Remington narrowly. "Strategizing," he said. "Your winning approach there, the reason you've done so well, what is it? A certain product or vehicle you've been recommending, that's done the trick?"

Remington hesitated a moment. There was a trap of in the man's words, he was sure, but where did it lie? He would have given anything to know what Laura was thinking. "Not at all," he said. "I imagine the temptation's the same for everyone to take the easy way out and simply apply a template. One size fits all, so to speak. I prefer the labor-intensive route: considering the time horizon, goal-setting, accounting for the challenges and obstacles at each stage of life…Better for the client's well-being and more rewarding professionally in the long run, wouldn't you agree?"

He must have hit the right note, because Kevin Cox relaxed a little in his chair. Dhillon said, "Of course, it depends upon the professional rewards one is seeking."

"From the sound of things, you're open to a little risk," Farber said. "Or maybe a lot? No safe routes for you, bonds, annuities, to hedge your bets?"

"It depends." Remington was a little more confident in parrying this thrust. "I'm all for playing it safe, when the situation warrants. But one must evaluate first, eh? I mean, it's all about time of life. What's suitable for someone more mature would be wrong for a young person. And the contrary is true, of course."

"Of course. Well, John…and Linda. I'll be interested to see you at work." Farber raised her glass to them in an ironic toast. "Welcome aboard."

The hostile undercurrent diminished after that. Probably the fact that lunch was almost over had a lot to do with it. Cox made an excuse to the three brokers to cover his staying behind with the Steeles; the trio departed without any perceptible change in the degree of friendliness to their new "colleagues".

"Tough crowd," Laura remarked when they had passed out of sight.

"I've been in less danger of being cut when fencing without a safety mask," added Remington. "And seen smiles less reptilian--well, at the zoo."

"They're competitors," said Cox. "It's what it takes to make it big in this business. But you handled them great, both of you. Listen, could you give me another half hour? I'd like to have it clear in my mind what your focus will be when you get back from Europe. You leave tomorrow for London, right?"

"And fly back from Nice next Monday," Laura said. "It's back to work on Wednesday."

"Excuse me while I let our assistant know there's a change in the schedule. Won't be a moment." And Remington rose and made his way towards the back of the restaurant.

Cox turned to Laura. "You two were outstanding," he said again. "Wait til I tell Jim. But can I ask you a question? Are you sure Mr. Steele's never worked in financial advising? If I didn't know better, listening to him a few minutes ago, I would've taken him for a real broker."

Laura couldn't help beaming at the praise. Not only was it good to know they'd pleased the client, it was gratifying to hear him acknowledge her husband's skill. "Positive. But that's Mr. Steele. He's got a gift for throwing himself completely into every role he plays."

"Amazing," Cox repeated, shaking his head. He gazed in the direction in which Remington had disappeared. "It's like he's been doing it all his life."

* * *

Back at the agency, Mildred followed the Steeles into Remington's office. "So how was the first face-to-face with the Gang of Three?"

"I have one word for you, Mildred: _Jaws_." Remington had removed his jacket and was rolling up his sleeves. "Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfuss, Universal Studios, 1975. A ruthless predator circles underwater, anticipating the kill." Flinging himself into his chair, he began to hum the movie's theme, wagging his eyebrows in time to the upbeat. "DUH-duh…DUH-duh…DUH-duh…"

This evoked the desired laugh from his audience. Laura dragged a chair to the other side of the desk. "There was a fair amount of predatory circling, so to speak, but I think we shut down every attempt to draw first blood. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Steele?"

"Oh, undoubtedly, Mrs. Steele, undoubtedly. Still, it wouldn't hurt to defang them in anticipation of the next encounter. Mildred, we'll want complete background on each of them. Ready? Nehri Dhillon - "

"Chief, hang on a minute, before I forget--Boss? Have you seen the 1983 ledger?"

Laura glanced up. "No. Why?"

"I've hunted all over and it's nowhere in the office. Thought maybe you'd taken it home."

"If I had, I would've let you know." Laura was turning something over in her mind. "Now that you mention it, though: it seems to be happening quite a bit these days, files not being where you expect them. That whole series of background on the thefts of _The Five Nudes of Cairo_, for instance. And Remington Steele's tax records all the way back to the beginning."

While she was speaking, her husband had gone bolt upright in his chair and assumed an attitude of seraphic, blue-eyed innocence. It couldn't hurt, even though he was fairly sure that his policy of never filing anything would exempt him from blame.

That left Mildred. "Boss, you don't think that I--"

"I'm not pointing fingers here, Mildred. I'm only saying that it would behoove us to be a little more careful about the disposition of our paperwork. _All_ of us," she added, with a stern glance at each of them for emphasis.

A knock diverted everyone's attention. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Steele, hi, Miss Krebs." Lieutenant Jimmy Jarvis of the Los Angeles Police Department, Homicide Division, ducked his head through the door. "Didn't think you'd mind if I showed myself in."

"Not at all, Lieutenant. Good to see you, as always." And Remington rose, extending his hand.

The sentiment wasn't altogether true. It had been good to see Jarvis the last time they met, which was at the Steeles' wedding reception, but that was unique in their experience with him. The invitation had been more of a politic move on Mildred's part than a gesture of friendship. It made professional sense to maintain cordial relations with the man who served as their most frequent contact with the police. Otherwise, it was hard to summon up a lot of warmth for someone who had arrested two of them on murder charges in separate situations, and come perilously close to doing the same for the third.

Laura's greeting reflected the ambiguity. "Personal visit, Lieutenant? Or professional call?"

She was moving towards the grouping of sofa and chairs on the other side of the office, and Jarvis, picking up the hint, joined her there.

"Professional, Mrs. Steele." His voice was businesslike and brisk, with no trace of the stammer that was part of what the Steeles called his 'Huck Finn routine'. "Some questions for you in connection with a case. I understand you knew Gladys Lynch."

There was no need for him to elaborate. The Steele agency understood what this visit meant.

News broadcasts had been full, in the days after their wedding, of bulletins that Lynch was missing. The gruesome discovery of her body in the trunk of her abandoned car had followed six days after the first report. It didn't take long for the press to announce that the police had upgraded the missing persons' investigation to murder. "I hate to sound flippant at such a time," Remington had remarked, "but it's a good thing no one was around to overhear our frequent declarations of dislike for her. We might very well have found ourselves suspects."

Now he fastened a wary gaze on the lieutenant. "She was my Immigration case worker, until recently."

"Until you were granted non-provisional status as an alien with an American wife. I wouldn't have guessed you were in the country illegally, Mr. Steele."

"One of those bureaucratic snafus your government is always apologizing for."

"This is all part of public record," said Laura. "We've co-operated with Immigration from the beginning, and my husband's case was favorably resolved weeks ago. Surely you're not suggesting there's anything suspicious about our marriage? Seeing as how you were at our wedding reception?"

"I'm not, Mrs. Steele. But Gladys Lynch did, according to her supervisor."

"We're well aware of Ms. Lynch's suspicions, Jarvis," said Remington.

"She even came here and threatened us," added Mildred. " 'Under the radar', was how she put it."

"Not exactly the proper, open, above-board attitude of a devoted public servant," Laura said dryly.

Remington had a flash of insight. "Which is why it's taken so long for you to come to us. This supervisor of Gladys', he wasn't all that forthcoming about her activities concerning us, was he? Because she was directly countermanding orders from higher up, and he'd approved it, and if they were found out, there'd be hell to pay." Jarvis hesitated. "Ah, come now, Jimmy. It took a while, but you ferreted it out of him, didn't you?"

The lieutenant offered a sheepish smile.

"I knew it, I knew it! Good man!" said Remington.

Laura threw him an irritated glance. "Just whose side are you on? Okay," she addressed Jarvis. "If Gladys Lynch's suspicions looked like a motive to you, it's pretty threadbare. More like the petty revenge of a bureaucrat whose nose we put out of joint. Anything else to connect us to the crime? Means? Opportunity?"

Jarvis' integrity, which they always admired in spite of themselves, surfaced now. "Forensics fixes the time of death as sometime on the Sunday you got married," he said reluctantly.

Remington and Laura exchanged a triumphant look that was tinged with relief. They could account for almost every minute of their time during that period. They could also tell that Jarvis knew it.

"This visit, Jimmy," drawled Remington. "It's less an official inquiry than a fishing expedition, eh? Don't be shy about confessing. You're among friends here."

The way the other man waved his hands betrayed his frustration. "Just following the only—slim-- leads we have. The mode of death was highly irregular, even for this town. I can't go into details, but you just don't see strangulation by means of the kind of ligature we found on the body every day. Garroting," he explained when it was clear they weren't following. "An old-style form of political or state execution. Not too common among the gang boys. Or people who might have had a grudge against her because of her job."

"Listen, Lieutentant," Mildred said, hands on hips, eyes snapping with outrage. "You're not implying that Mr. and Mrs. Steele are capable of that?"

"Of course not."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mildred," Remington said. "Man's only doing his job. Isn't that right, Jarvis?" And he rose to his feet, an indication that, in his opinion, the interview was over.

The significance wasn't lost on Jarvis. "I know I don't have to ask this, but what I told you was in confidence…"

"Say no more, say no more," Remington interjected.

"…and call me if you come across any information at all?"

"Count on it." Laura was walking him to the door. "See you around."

She waited until he had disappeared through the main agency entrance before turning back to her husband. "I've got to say, annoying as that woman was, I wouldn't have wished this on her in a million years."

"A one-way transfer to the customs department in Anchorage, perhaps," Remington agreed. "Or that place in the middle of the country, what's it called? The one with seven months of sub zero temperatures--? "

"Fargo?" suggested Mildred.

"Precisely. But not murder."

"Strange, the cause of death," Laura mused. She had the look she always got when confronted by a mystery: intrigued, absorbed. "And I wonder why he left out the details of the murder weapon?"

"Professional jealousy, I'll wager. Afraid if he divulged too much, you'd show him up by solving the case before he could. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

She flashed her dimple at him. "Thanks. But I think--"

She was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger delivering a package from Veenhof Photographic Studios. Immediately she pounced on it. "This must be our proofs! Finally!"

It was the first contact they'd had with the portraitist and sometime boudoir photographer since he'd shot their wedding pictures over two weeks ago. Remington had hired him in spite of a trick he'd played on Laura in the past, digitally superimposing her head on the body of a plain, but terrifically endowed, woman, and selling the resulting photo to a porno magazine. He had rewarded Remington's faith in him by behaving throughout the ceremony and reception and doing his work thoroughly and professionally.

They spread the proofs out on Remington's desk. Personal carelessness and dubious extra-curricular activities aside, Veenhof was really talented. The formal portraits were artfully composed, and the candid shots demonstrated a deft touch for capturing isolated moods and moments at their peak of visual beauty. Even Mildred, who had never been a Veenhof fan, said, "Wow."

"Guess you were right, Mr. Steele," Laura said. "He was the man for the job."

He smirked. "When will you learn to trust my instincts in these situations, Laura?"

She started to swat him and then forgot all about it as he turned over a new photo. It was her turn to exclaim. "Oh, my."

It was a three quarters shot of the Steeles, filling the frame, snapped in the instant after she had finished pinning on his boutonniere for him before the wedding. The two faces were in profile; Veenhof had caught the tenderness in Remington's eyes, the soft smile in Laura's, as they gazed at each other. Her right hand still lay on his lapel, cupping the flower lightly.

They were silent, just staring at it. Then she turned to him with the same soft smile as in the photo. "You were saying something earlier about memorable moments in the Steele family?"

"So I was, Mrs. Steele. So I was." And with an arm around her waist, he drew her close to him.

Wrapped up in each other--only in the figurative sense, because of Mildred's presence--they didn't notice that she had started towards the door until she was almost over the threshold. "Mildred?" they said in unison.

"No need to go," added Remington.

She looked back over her shoulder, shaking her head affectionately at them. "There's an old saying where I come from, kids. 'Three's a crowd'. A cliché? You bet. But in this case, apt."

She winked, and the door closed behind her.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

That evening, as he extracted the cork from the champagne bottle with his usual finesse, Remington reflected on the way life sometimes can change with dizzying speed.

Wasn't his own life the proof? Eight weeks ago this very night, he'd been pacing the floor, his mind racing with thoughts of the scheme he would unfold the next day, reviewing every angle, every detail. It had to go perfectly. There was no margin for even the smallest mistake. All he held dear was hanging in the balance: his freedom, his security, his livelihood. His identity as Remington Steele. His relationship with Laura. If he couldn't fool the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service into believing he was married to an American citizen, he would be deported, barred from ever returning to the country, in fewer than twenty-four hours.

Even if his plan were successful, beyond it had loomed a future he hadn't allowed himself to foresee and didn't want to imagine. How he would break the news of his phony marriage to Laura. How she would react. How they would--or could--go on, once she learned the truth.

No wonder he'd been operating at low level panic, a turn of events that had astonished him. Where was the coolness and clarity with which he'd pulled off myriad brilliant heists, clever scams without number, all over the world? Altogether vanished. Instead, his head was pounding, his gut was tied in knots, and he'd spent the entire night staring at the ceiling when he'd finally taken himself off to bed.

Panic, as it turned out, was the right response. Nothing had worked out according to plan. It had fallen apart, just as long experience had taught him to expect it would. What was his former life, anyway, the one before Laura, if not a long succession of upsets and reversals, upheavals and losses? It was the origin of his talent for improvisation, as well as his old habit of never investing himself too deeply in the success of any venture on which he embarked. He knew that the only way to survive was to stand ready to pick up the pieces and move on at a moment's notice when his precarious world crumbled beneath him yet again.

Only this time, the rug wasn't yanked out from under him. The breakdown of his plan had led, not to the end of his life as Remington Steele, but a new beginning. The fake bride replaced by the real one; the marriage of convenience with the genuine article. Providence, which had been against him more often than not in the past, had conspired to bring him and Laura together in a way that they could never have achieved on their own. "The happiest married couple in America," he'd said to her sarcastically on the deck of the fishing trawler at the end of their first wedding ceremony. Well, yes. Indeed they were. The happiest couple in America…no sarcasm intended.

He couldn't have begun to describe how wonderful it was. Good as he was at expressing himself on other subjects, he was still tongue-tied when it came to emotions. He simply didn't have the right words. But he loved being married to Laura. It wasn't just the sex--though he would've been lying if he'd said that it wasn't a big part of it. Who would have expected marriage to result in a physical connection so intense, consuming and fulfilling, all at the same time? That the closer they became, the more he would want her? Certainly not he, who had spent his adult life running from precisely that sort of commitment.

But it was also the fact that they belonged to each other now. She was his wife; he was her husband, the one she had chosen--him!--ahead of the other men who'd vied for her affections over the years. And there was the security of coming home every day with someone to whom it mattered very much whether he was lying next to her every night, who would miss him if he weren't there, and who was beginning to admit she needed him as much as he needed her.

The most gratifying change of all? The trust in her eyes when she looked at him. It was far more than the unspoken reliance on one another that came from working together in a dangerous profession. No, it was the trust of a woman who was learning to put aside her old doubts and fears and, little by little, open her heart to him. Now that he had it, or some of it, he realized just how important it had become to him. It wasn't only to make love to her that he had waited so patiently for so long.

Just now, though, she was the one waiting patiently while he filled two glasses from the bottle of Moët he'd brought to the Windsor Square house. They had come over after work, bringing a picnic supper, eaten on a blanket spread before the empty hearth in the living room, and a few other essentials to store in anticipation of moving day.

"Your toast, Mr. Steele," she said when he handed her champagne flute to her at last.

He stretched out on the blanket, propped himself up on an elbow, and raised his own glass. "To our new home. And…two months of wedded bliss, and counting."

"And tomorrow in London, recovering more of your past."

He paused with his champagne partway to his mouth. "I'm not at all sure I want to toast that."

"It'll be fine," Laura said firmly. "If there was anything to hide, Daniel wouldn't have left those things to you. Remember how long he searched for you, and how he helped you turn yourself around when he found you. The last thing he would've wanted to do was hurt you now."

"You think so, do you?"

"I know so." She laid a reassuring hand on his and squeezed.

"He'd have been surprised, hearing what a staunch defender he has these days in you."

"Not as surprised as I was over what he said in the video, that he couldn't have chosen a better wife for you than me."

"When you remember what impeccable taste he had, that's no surprise at all." He smiled.

The smile didn't altogether convince her that he was okay about London, and she told him so. "Try thinking of it as an adventure," she concluded. "At the very least, you could learn more about Daniel. And who knows? Maybe you have some long-lost aunts or cousins out there who would love to meet you."

"Highly unlikely. In all the time I knew him, Daniel never once mentioned family. I don't know that he had any. My impression was that he was rather alone in the world."

"Until he found you."

"Even after that it was just the two of us, fine on our own, not needing anyone else. It didn't change--for me, at least--until the moment I met you."

"And ended up with more family than you ever bargained for," she said dryly. "But where a lesser man might have run screaming into the night, you've taken it all in stride."

"Come now, Laura. Aren't you exaggerating a little? There've been some challenges, I'll grant you, but it's all part and parcel of wedded life."

"Neurotic sister-in-law? Overbearing, critical mother-in-law? Forty-six cousins by marriage?"

"Unexpected but delightful dividends from our relationship."

Defeated by his unshakable optimism, she threw up her hands in mock frustration. "That's what I love about you, Mr. Steele. There's no cloud you can't transform into a silver lining."

"Not to this point. If I ever encounter one, I'll let you know. And now…speaking of unexpected, but delightful, dividends…" He took the glass from her and set it aside. On his feet, he reached down for her. "Shall we tour our holdings, Mrs. Steele?"

She gave him a keen look, one that told him she was well aware that he had deliberately changed the subject rather than talk about London any further. But she put her hand into his without comment and let him pull her up.

It was the first opportunity they'd had to bounce around their ideas for the house while on the premises, and they took full advantage of it, wandering from room to room on the ground floor. It was more fun than either would have expected. Though not in the least interested in color schemes, he had definite opinions about the disposition of their furniture; surprisingly, she agreed that his suggestions, influenced by his eye for form and balance, were better than anything she could have come up with on her own. They would bring the dining room set over from Rossmore, but shop for new furniture for the living room, filling in with Laura's pieces for the interim. Her piano would hold pride of place between the two long windows on the outer wall.

At the doorway to the den, Laura announced, "This'll be--what should we call it? The screening room? Totally devoted to movie watching, and movie watching alone."

"And this is your study," he added from the room next door. "Think of it, Laura! The two of us here, separated only by a wall, yet each with space of our own, free to pursue our individual interests, but close enough to come together when we choose. The best of both worlds, eh?"

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "As long as we can keep them from colliding."

Upstairs she indicated one of the smaller bedrooms. "What if we made this into an exercise room? We could install my barre right here."

"I have a better idea." Taking her hand, he led her toward what would be their bedroom. "In here. That way I could lie in bed in the morning and watch you at your routine."

"Sure it's not just an excuse to avoid exercising yourself?" she teased.

"Not at all. Merely cultivating my connoisseurship of the dancer's art." She certainly looked like a dancer just then, he thought, in her full-skirted sun dress, a concession to the heat, and with ballet flats on her bare feet. "The bed there--your barre there. What could be better?"

"You're really going to get up every day at six in the morning to watch me? This I've got to see."

He arched an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously like a challenge, my love."

"Mark my words, you'll be bored to tears before the first session is even over. You'll be asleep!"

"Bored? While my beautiful wife sculpts and tones to the strains of Rachmaninoff and Respighi? I can think of several possible descriptions for my state of mind under those circumstances, but boredom isn't among them." He took her in his arms and stooped so that his lips were close to her ear. "You, in one of those silky leotards…the material clinging to every curve…" His hands came up to caress her in the places he was describing. "The play of your muscles, here—here-- and here...the smooth motion of your hip and thigh…the graceful stretch of your waist…your arm…" By now his mouth was traveling downward, following her jaw line. "The arch and curve of your neck…" The rest of his words were lost as Laura wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

He walked her backward to the window seat, where he made a swift one hundred eighty degree turn, lifted her off her feet and sat down with her in his lap, all without taking his mouth from hers. She laughed around his kiss. "Talk about smooth motion."

He raised his head, amused. "That's what I love about you, Laura. The lilt of your laughter at moments like these. Encourages a man, makes him feel he's gotten things right." He bent over her again, nuzzling her throat. "Why wait until we've moved in? You could give me a demonstration--a preview, as it were--right now."

"Right now I'm more interested in a duet than a solo performance." She was proving it by beginning to undo his clothing.

"Are you?" he murmured.

"Otherwise there's no music, and nothing to hold onto."

"Laura. Are you trying to say we make beautiful music together?"

"I like to think of it as giving new meaning to the term 'housewarming'."

Remington straightened. He eyed the window, measuring their proximity to it. Then he planted an exuberant kiss on her mouth and set her on her feet before springing to his own.

"Where are you going?" she called after him as he headed towards the door.

"To get the blanket. Wouldn't do to start the neighbors gossiping about our degeneracy before we've even moved in."

* * *

The following night found everyone in the darkened cabin of the London-bound jetliner asleep, except for Laura.

Remington was hunched up as close as possible to the armrest they shared, leaning against her shoulder in that endearing way he had. He had nodded off ages ago, of course, and by now was dead to the world. It always amazed her how he could do it in such cramped quarters as these. She brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead and bent down to kiss his lips lightly. If only one of them was going to have a decent night's rest, she was glad it would be him.

As for her, there was too much to think about. From a practical standpoint, this trip couldn't have come at a less opportune time. She wasn't worried about the agency, so much; it was the details of their personal life that were in disarray. The closing on the loft less than two weeks away. A constant stream of potential buyers at Rossmore. Cleaners due to give the Windsor Square house a thorough scrubbing, with painters to follow close on their heels. The Rabbit in the shop to be fitted, at Remington's instigation, with one of the new, more compact mobile phones. Good thing that Mildred had never the drawn the line at the professional when it came to her employers, and was willing to jump in to deal with the loose ends while they were gone. What they would've done without her, Laura didn't know.

There had been a few uncharacteristically bad moments between them this afternoon, though, prior to Laura's departure for the airport. They had started out well, with a productive meeting to review the status of their active case files. Mildred had been her customary efficient self; they were making good progress on all fronts. Two of the cases--tracking down old college roommates for a reunion and unearthing the financial trail of an embezzler--she'd simply resolved after an afternoon at her computer. The only thing left was to invoice the clients.

She'd had far less success in her continuing research on Anthony Roselli, the report she'd saved for the end. "Got the verification I was waiting for on the last guy left on my list," she said. "Honorable discharge in '83, selling tractors at a John Deere dealership in Oskalossa."

"No reason to suspect that someone, another soldier, assumed the real Roselli's identity when he was killed in that skirmish?" Remington had posited that theory, inspired by the movie _The Return of Martin Guerre_, in an attempt to explain the undeniable fact that Anthony Roselli had died in West Germany.

"_Nada_! _Bubkes_! Every one of the soldiers stationed at Ferris Barracks in the same company at the same time as Roselli accounted for from '81 onward. No one's dropped outta sight, no one's got a gap in his history." She closed the file folder. "Sorry, Boss. Looks like we're back to the drawing board on this one."

"Oh, well, it's not the first time one of Mr. Steele's movie theories has led us to a dead end," Laura said philosophically. "And it's not like there's been sight or sound of Roselli since we got home from London. We'll just keep working it until we get some answers. Though I have to admit, I'm a little blocked as to where we go from here."

"I've got an angle we can try, Boss." Not entirely comfortable yet with the greater input the Steeles had begun to solicit from her, Mildred seemed a shade hesitant.

"Great! Let's hear it."

"Well, we know he's got connections to government, right? Whether it's Immigration or CIA or the Army. That means he's on the payroll. And payroll means IRS. No way he could avoid it, no matter what his real name is."

"Makes sense so far. And I think I know what else you're thinking. Bumpers?"

"Bumpers. He's got access and he knows his way around. If this guy's paid taxes under the name of Anthony Roselli, no matter how deep they're hidden, Bumpers'll find 'em."

"Great," Laura said again. "Keep at it. Don't make it a priority over the paying clients, but let's not relegate it to the backburner, either. This is one mystery we're not giving up on til it's solved." The meeting over, she began to gather up scattered paperwork. "By the way…we haven't said anything because we didn't want to seem like we were prying…but you and Bumpers. It's going well?"

The involuntary smile that broke out on her face belied Mildred's shrug. "Oh, honey, you know how it goes. It's tough at our age, getting used to someone else, after living alone so long. So we're taking it slow. But he's happy he's here…_I'm_ happy he's here."

"That's all I needed to know." They exchanged a smile, until Laura broke the moment by glancing at her watch. "I'd better get a move on. Mr. Steele's picking me up in twenty minutes."

As she straightened out her desk, Laura found her thoughts straying to Tony Roselli. It was becoming difficult to remember why they'd taken his threats so seriously the last time they were in London. The energy they'd expended, worrying whether or not he would somehow act to prevent Remington from returning to the United States! Far from a proportionate response, when she considered what had actually transpired, and that they'd seen and heard nothing of him in more than two months. In some ways she wondered whether they could even justify the time they were putting into figuring out who he really was. More and more, he was coming to resemble another self-appointed arch-nemesis of theirs, Major Descoines: a lot of ominous talk, no follow-through. What had the Major said, last time they'd seen him? "But we always come back." Three years and counting, and he was still safely locked up, his daughter a non-presence in the Steeles' lives. Maybe they should begin to view the memory of Roselli's, 'See you in L.A.,' in a similar light.

She looked down at the file in her hand. Demerest & Associates. Probably she ought to set a good example to the others regarding their paperwork, and put it away. What a coincidence that she'd been thinking about Major Descoines, when this folder belonged right in front of his in the file cabinet…

The Descoines files--three of them in all--weren't there.

A glance confirmed that she had the right drawer. Quickly she riffled through it. The agency's filing system was fairly simple: cases were arranged in alphabetical order by client, when there was one, or subject, when there wasn't, with colored tabs to denote "Pending", "Active" or "Closed". It had been Mildred's ingenious way of buying back the space they'd sacrificed by segregating closed and open cases. A search through the contents showed her that the Descoines files hadn't been misfiled – at least, not in the "D's".

Her husband's desk? Not likely, though it didn't hurt to look. Sure enough, its surface, as always, was clutter-free. The same with his desk drawers. Back at her own desk, she stood for a moment, frowning. Then she pressed the intercom button. "Mildred? Could you come in here, please?"

She met the other woman's enquiring gaze with as much severity as she could muster. "We've got a problem. Have you seen the Descoines files?"

Mildred shook her head.

"Well, they're missing. I don't have them. Mr. Steele doesn't have them--I checked."

Mildred's body language said 'you got me' as clearly as if she'd spoken the words aloud. "I haven't touched them since I re-vamped the filing system."

"Are you sure? Think. Maybe you needed to update information for the SBIS and forgot to put them back."

"Boss, come on! I just told you, I don't have them."

"Well, they didn't just walk off by themselves!" Laura snapped. "Somebody has them, and you're the most logical person."

Mildred drew herself up to her full height, the picture of wounded dignity. "Mrs. Steele, that's not fair. And it's not like you not to be fair. I know you're under a lot of stress right now, but when did I ever give you a reason to think I'd be that careless?"

Laura tried to stare her down, but it was hard work. After a moment she shook her head, hand to her brow. "I know, Mildred. I'm sorry. But this missing paperwork is serious business, and it's starting to worry me. If it's not one of us, who is it? How well do you know the cleaning ladies?"

"Annie and Luisa? Good gals, not the type to poke their noses into things that don't concern them."

"Well, keep an eye on them anyhow." Laura sighed. "Of all the times to be away, this is looking worse and worse."

Mildred had patted her on the shoulder, the tension between them forgiven, if not altogether forgotten. "Relax, honey. It'll all work out. And what do you wanna bet, by the time you get back, this mystery'll be solved?"

Remembering, Laura couldn't help smiling wryly to herself. What a relief it would be if the issue _did_ resolve itself, with no further input from her, while they were in Europe. One fewer puzzle to figure out, one fewer loose end to tie up. At least there was one thing they didn't have to worry about: whether or not Immigration would bar Remington from Los Angeles. There would be no nasty surprises from Roselli to ruin their homecoming.

With a sigh, she reached up to turn off the tiny overhead reading lamp, stowed her paperback in the rear pocket of the seat in front of her, and wriggled down so that she was curled next to Remington. Spreading her blanket to cover them both, she closed her eyes and tried to compose herself for sleep.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Upon their arrival in London, the Steeles had just enough time to check into their favorite hotel, the St. John Mayfair, and briefly freshen up before traveling by cab to Simon Edwards Solicitors in Hampstead.

There they were ushered into an office where a woman not much more than Laura's age was waiting for them behind a Jacobean desk. She was fantastically pretty, auburn-haired, her eyes a clear gray. Remington had to struggle to suppress a smile. How typical of Daniel to make good looks his first criteria when selecting a legal advisor, and how true his eye had remained in that regard, even to the end.

But when she rose to greet them, he realized that he'd not only underestimated her, but his father, as well. "Mr. Steele? And Mrs. Steele? How do you do?" She offered her hand to Laura, then to him. Her tone was polite but cool, her handshake firm and businesslike. In fact, her entire demeanor reminded him of Laura's when meeting a new client. "Alexandra Edwards. Since your father retained me as a special advisor, as well as naming me his executor, we--my uncle Simon, with whom you've spoken, and I--thought it expedient that I handle the reading of the will. Unless you have an objection? No? Do sit down."

They took a pair of chairs facing the solicitor while she donned a pair of horn rims and squared a stack of papers before her. Folding her hands, she looked across at Remington. "Mr. Chalmers' will is quite brief and straightforward, which is as he wanted it. We can dispense with the formal reading, if you like, and I'll simply outline the bequests it contains."

The Steeles exchanged a glance. "By all means," said Remington.

"First, Mr. Chalmers has named you his sole heir and beneficiary. There are no other legatees-- which is the reason we can handle this stage with more dispatch than would be usual. To put it concisely, Mr. Steele, your father has left you a combination of cash accounts and investments whose value, taken together, equal to a little over one hundred twenty thousand American dollars, after death duties have been paid; the deed to the Villa Montreuil, his home in Menton, France, with a sum set aside for its upkeep and special instructions for its disposition; and a third bequest whose contents I'm not at liberty to divulge until we've been through the second part of my presentation." She leaned back in her seat. "Have you any questions?"

Astonishment had momentarily robbed the Steeles of their ability to speak. Laura was first to recover. "Forgive us, Miss Edwards. It's just that we received a videotape from my father-in-law, sent from this office, where he told my husband that he'd managed to put away, quote, 'a little for a rainy day'."

"Yes, Mr. Chalmers had rather a talent for understatement, didn't he? I'm privy to the contents of the tape, Mrs. Steele. In fact, it was I who suggested its production, in view of the fact that he was, by his own admission, no letter writer. It seemed the easiest--and most intimate--way to convey the news of his relationship to you, Mr. Steele. As for his coyness with regard to the extent of your inheritance…well, I believe he had it in mind to surprise you." Edwards smiled for the first time since their arrival. "May I take it that he succeeded?"

"Admirably," said Remington.

"He would have been glad of that. His goal for many years was to leave a substantial sum behind for you. As a result, he was very patient, very steady, with his investments." Affection was evident in her voice, and the Steeles found themselves warming towards her. "What else may I tell you?" she asked.

Over the next few minutes, she answered some of the questions with which Daniel's sudden death had left them. Sometimes they gleaned more information from what she didn't say than what she did. None of it was easy to bear. He'd known about his illness far longer than they'd assumed; the move to the Rivera in 1983 wasn't the hedonistic retirement at which he had hinted, but in obedience to doctor's orders. Two years later he'd given up his London flat for the same reason. As the implications sank in, Remington, who could still be rubbed raw when he least expected it by mentions of his father, stirred abruptly in his chair and looked away from them. He was twisting his earlobe between thumb and forefinger. Quick to spot it, Laura picked up his other hand and held it in a firm clasp.

The removal from Nice to Menton had also been dictated by Daniel's health. It was an escape from the stress and crowds of Nice's high tourist season to a more leisurely way of life. Of the house he'd purchased, Edwards said, "It's been called the Villa Montreuil for decades, after the man who built it, and Mr. Chalmers preserved the tradition. As homes on the Riviera go, it's a modest place, some distance from the beach, but quite lovely nevertheless." Remembering the description that her mother, Abigail, had given them after revealing she'd spent several summers in France with Daniel, Laura winced.

When they had covered the stipulations Daniel had left with regard to the villa—the couple who looked after it must be given ample notice before sale, and the Steeles were to keep them on at salary until any sale was completed—Edwards said, "Right. Let's move on to the second part of the presentation."

From a desk drawer she extracted an album, and held it out to Remington.

Here it was: the moment for which he'd been steeling himself, not just today, but ever since the videotape had arrived in the mail at Rossmore. With a hand that he couldn't quite keep from shaking, he accepted the album from Alexandra Edwards and set it on the desk between him and Laura. Together they bent their heads over it; he opened the cover, revealing the first page.

The Steeles gasped.

What they saw was a black and white portrait of a family group of five from sixty years before, or a little later: father, mother, two girls, a dark-eyed boy.

The father's features were Remington's.

"Your grandfather, John Lloyd Chalmers," said Edwards. "Your grandmother, Lillian. The boy is your father, the girls his sisters, Lillian and Margaret, called Peggy."

The Steeles examined the photo more closely. As far as they could tell from the oiled, clipped style of the day, John Lloyd Chalmers' hair was lighter than Remington's; his eyes were darker, and his smile, though as dazzling as his grandson's, wasn't quite as symmetrical. But the long bones, height and clear-cut features were the same. "Daniel wasn't kidding when he called you the very image of his father," said Laura.

"Can you--?" Remington had to clear his throat before he could go on. "Can you tell us more about them?"

"Indeed I shall." Edwards passed him a neatly bound booklet. "A copy of my research notes. I read history at university as well as law, and my dissertation topic was tracking down and organizing the records of a family in Wiltshire who trace their roots to the time of Edmund the Magnificent. I've developed a reputation for that kind of ancestral research. It's the reason Mr. Chalmers retained me. You come from a very gifted family, Mr. Steele, and your father wanted you to know as much beyond his own store of information as I could discover." Edwards paused to let that sink in. "I'll begin with your immediate family. Shall I continue?"

He made a gesture in the affirmative before turning back to the album. The next page contained photos his grandparents, together and separately. One of his grandfather looked a great deal like a publicity still from the late twenties or early thirties, the kind that would have been displayed in a playbill or on a theater marquee.

Edwards confirmed it. "Your grandfather was a respected stage actor into the mid-forties. He was known professionally as Lloyd Chalmers."

"I've never heard of him," said Remington.

"It's not likely that you would have, unless you know a great deal about English theater. He never made the transition into films, nor desired to do so, as far as your father knew. Lloyd Chalmers began his career in London when he was quite young, and was much in demand--so much that he was secured for an extended engagement in the States before the First World War. It's how he met your grandmother. She was returning with her father from the American version of the 'Grand Tour'; she and Lloyd Chalmers crossed to New York on the same steamer in 1913."

"Wait a minute," Laura demanded. "Are you saying what I think you are? My husband's grandmother was _American_?"

"As was his father - by birth, if not by citizenship. He was born in California in 1918." Edwards looked from her to Remington. "You didn't know?"

"He never said a word." He looked again at Lillian Chalmers, the aureole of blonde hair framing an oval, sweetly girlish face. American! Not in a million years would the possibility even have occurred to him.

"How long did they live there?" asked Laura.

"In California? Only sporadically. It was the home of Mrs. Chalmers's father, and they spent winters with him because young Daniel was a sickly infant, and it was thought the climate would do him good. In America in general, they spent almost a decade. The war began shortly after Lloyd and Lillian married, and her father objected to their returning to Europe. She was his only child, he a widower, extremely wealthy, and used to getting his own way. Abner Carmichael. There's no photograph of him, I'm afraid. However, you've no doubt noticed that there's little resemblance between Mr. Chalmers and his parents? It's because he favored his grandfather, just as you do, Mr. Steele, though in his case it was the maternal side."

The succeeding pages held other, increasingly recent, family portraits, as well as individual snaps that chronicled the growth of Daniel and his sisters. Edwards said: "They moved to London in '23, traveling back to the States periodically to visit Mr. Carmichael, or when Lloyd Chalmers was cast in a play. There was an American authoress, Mary Roberts Rinehart, whose mysteries and detective stories were mounted for the stage through the teens and twenties. He'd been doing them since before he was married, and the producers liked his work so much, they continued to cast him."

Remington was poring over another portrait, one where the Chalmers children had obviously entered their adolescent years. An adult outline was beginning to emerge from the boyish softness of Daniel's face; he was about half a head shorter than his father, who stood beside him with his arm around him. The youngest daughter was her mother all over again, but slender where Lillian's figure had become matronly. The older girl, meanwhile, seemed to have inherited an unfortunate combination of her parents' features, and was tall and angular, with a long face and square jaw.

What was striking in the image was its informality, so different from the stiffly posed photographs they were used to seeing from that era. It somehow made the family seem more accessible, the way every member was smiling into the camera, and the telltale clues that pointed to their closeness: Lloyd's hand on his wife's shoulder, Lillian's arm linked with that of her namesake, Peggy curled on the floor at her father's feet, head leaning against her mother's knee. Even across the fifty-year divide that separated them from the present, their affection for one another communicated itself plainly.

Remington raised his head, his expression wistful. "Did they get on together, did Daniel tell you?"

"Extraordinarily well, he said. They were very happy. He adored his parents, in particular his father, who was a man of enormous warmth and charm. It was easy to believe, after meeting Mr. Chalmers. Lloyd Chalmers clearly passed those traits to his son."

And his grandson, Laura thought, but didn't say it aloud.

All at once, the display of photos came to an end. Remington leafed a little further, then onward after that, five or six pages more. Nothing. The sudden blanks seemed ominous, and the Steeles looked questioningly at Edwards.

She was watching with quiet compassion. "There are no others. These were all Mr. Chalmers had--all he managed to salvage from the Chalmers' home in Chelsea. The rest were lost there in a V-2 explosion in 1945. Almost the end of the Second World War. Your grandfather and your aunt Peggy, a promising young actress in her own right, were killed."

There was a moment or two of silence while the Steeles absorbed her words. "My grandmother?" Remington said at last.

"Killed in '41 while traveling to America to be with her father, who was mortally ill. And that's all I can tell you about their deaths, Mr. Steele. Your father simply refused to talk of it. There was a line somewhere in Robert Graves, he said, that had always summed it up for him: 'Of my own sorrow I cannot trust myself to write.' Nor speak, apparently. In the forty years since it happened, he had told no one about his family but me."

"Poor Daniel," Laura said softly.

"It explains a lot, actually." Remington closed the book gently, almost reverentially, and laid it in his lap. "May I keep these?"

"Your father meant you to have them. There's more, Mr. Steele, if you'd like to hear it." At his nod, she went on, "Some brief background on the Chalmers family. They were sailors into the eighteenth century, then ship owners, and, finally, merchants in the East India trade. Solid, respectable, part of the rising middle class. What's quite unusual is that their interests didn't remain strictly mercantile. There seems to have been a great inclination towards the arts, and encouragement in the pursuit of them, beginning with your grandfather's great grandfather. As a result, the family produced some notable personages in that regard. Not wildly famous, but successful, and highly respected practitioners, as Lloyd Chalmers was. For instance…" She consulted her notes. "Your great grandfather's sister, the authoress, Mrs. Stackhouse. Caroline Chalmers Stackhouse, an intimate of Mrs. Gaskell's, and a writer of Gothic mysteries, early 'whodunits', if you will, serialized in the magazines of the day. There was also in that generation a David Chalmers, a cousin, who was an illustrator and a cartoonist for _Punch_, _Cornhills_¸ _The Comic Almanack_ and _Omnibus_. And--probably the most famous--Ralph Chalmers, the painter, your grandfather's uncle. He was a minor member of the later pre-Raphaelite school. His style has been out of favor until very recently, but one of his paintings hangs in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, _The Defeat of Bois-Guilbert_."

By now, Remington was leaning forward a little in his seat, his eyes fixed on the solicitor. "Artists," he murmured, as if to himself. "Remarkable."

"Mainly," Edwards replied. "But writers, as well. A second cousin of Lloyd's--another John--was an ornithologist who authored several guides for amateur naturalists, for which he also provided the illustrations. And then there was your grandfather's aunt Edina, Mrs. Easby."

"Hold on. I recognize that name. E. C. Easby?" said Laura. " 'The Graves of the Hepburns'? Mr. Colherne, the vicar of St. Austell's in Polreath, Cornwall, right?"

Edwards glanced up in surprise. "Correct. You know the story, Mrs. Steele?"

"It's one of my favorites. She wrote another one about him, didn't she?"

"Any number. She was a very prolific writer of ghost stories--" here Remington lifted his eyebrows at his wife—"which often featured the character of Mr. Colherne, a minister who moonlighted as an amateur investigator of spectral phenomena, not always disproving them. A few of the stories have been anthologized over the years. She also wrote a series of novels in which Mr. Colherne marries the daughter of the dean of Truro and she joins him in his investigations." She removed her glasses and laid aside her notes. "I've detailed all of it here, the entire family history. The names I've related to you, dates of birth and death, parentage, marriages and children. Also the titles and dates of their work, where available, and reference works in which they've been noted. I should like you to know, as well, that you have living relatives: your aunt Lillian, Mrs. Adair Dalgleish, and her sons. Your father hadn't spoken to her in many years, but my uncle thought it right to notify her of his death."

The interview was drawing to a close. Remington sat upright in his chair again. "Miss Edwards--"

"Alix, please."

"Alix. I don't know what to say. There's no way to tell you how much this means to me. None. I…I'm…" He broke off with an apologetic little gesture. "It's not often that I'm at such a loss for words."

"I'll vouch for that," Laura put in, smiling.

"Understandable. And no need to thank me, Mr. Steele; it's your father who initiated the process. Now there remains only the final bequest, which is this: a family trust, whose principal isn't to be touched, but whose interest is at your disposal during your lifetime--an annual income equal now to approximately twenty thousand American dollars. It's been handed down to the eldest son for the past four generations; you would be obliged to do the same, should you have a son. In the meantime…I have here a final note to you, dictated to me by Mr. Chalmers." She glanced from him to the paper with the first indecision she'd shown. "Would it be easier if I read it to you?"

It was becoming more and more apparent why Daniel had hired her in the first place. "Please," Remington said, and reached for Laura's hand.

Edwards re-adjusted her glasses and drew a breath. " 'My dear son,' " she read. " 'By now you know all there is to know about your family--our family. I trust you're neither ashamed of nor disappointed by your patrimony, financial and otherwise. No doubt it's far different from the one you've imagined all these years.

" 'My hope is that seeing the photographs, hearing the stories, will help soften whatever anger you still harbor towards me for keeping the secret of your parentage all these years. Perhaps in time you may even be able to forgive me, and remember me kindly.

" 'Knowing you as well as I do, I'm sure you've been struck by your resemblance to your grandfather: the finest man I've ever known. Believe me when I tell you that the resemblance goes beyond the surface. In temperament and character, you bid fair to follow in his footsteps. He was a gentleman, in the truest sense of the word, to the last second of his life.

" 'It's his memory that gives me the courage to make a last request of you. I don't mean it to be a condition of your inheritance, by the way. No matter what you decide, all that I've left you is yours and will remain so.

" 'I would like to ask you, in honor of my father, to consider taking his name. It's the one I'd planned to give you when you were born, if only I'd had the opportunity to do so. Keep in mind that if you decline it, the name, at least in this branch of the family, dies with me. I'd like to prevent that if at all possible. Of course the reasons must be clear to you.

" 'There are two alternatives I would suggest. The first is in memory of both my parents: John Carmichael Chalmers. The second, my preference, is the name you would've carried all these years, had circumstances not intervened: John Lloyd Chalmers the Second.

" 'Whatever you choose, remember that I always was and will be,

" 'Your proud father,

" 'Daniel Carmichael Chalmers'."

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Laura waited only until they'd climbed into the rear of the taxi back to Mayfair before turning to Remington. "So?"

A funny little half smile was tugging at his mouth. "_Oliver Twist_. Alec Guinness, Robert Newton, John Howard Davies, Anthony Newley, 1948."

"In English, not by annotation, Mr. Steele."

"An orphan, raised to think of himself as a bastard, fallen in with thieves and pickpockets, discovers that he's in reality the scion of a respectable family."

She pondered it. "I have to admit, there is a touch of Dickens about all this."

"At least now we know where my love of cinema comes from, and that I come by it honestly."

"Along with your talent for assuming other identities?"

He gave her a look of mock reproof for her cheekiness. "A talent now, is it? Laura! That's not like you. Usually you assign it to the litany of my faults, not my virtues. By the way, speaking of unsuspected predilections--"

"Were we? I wasn't aware of it."

" --Ghost stories? I had no idea you were such a fan."

"A highly personal and esoteric taste. They have to be English or American, and written no later than 1940."

"Perhaps you'll initiate me sometime."

"Perhaps I will." Her expression turned thoughtful. "I still can't get over it. Daniel, born in California? An American?"

"Nor I. I wonder: would it have made a difference for us, when Immigration learned I was in the country illegally? Having an American father?"

"And grandmother. I don't know. It might have. At least we know it now. It might come in handy someday, and forewarned is forearmed."

"It occurs to me that if I'd only told him what was going on, we might have avoided the mess with Clarissa altogether."

"Assuming he would've admitted he was your father. That's a big 'if', don't you think?"

"Possibly. Ah, well. I can't help feeling that it all worked out as it was meant to. After all, we're together, eh?"

She scanned his face, her own gaze clear and direct. "You're glad you came, aren't you?"

He met her eyes steadily. "You ought to know the answer to that better than anyone. You were with me the last time I went looking for family. And the time before." He was referring to the way he had scoured Kerry Clare for Patrick O'Rourke three years ago, and last fall, when the Earl of Claridge had believed briefly that Remington was his son. Twice he'd gotten his hopes up; twice he'd been shot down.

She remembered the heartbreaking nonchalance he'd assumed to mask his disappointment on each of those occasions, and how unselfconsciously he had turned to her, not quite for sympathy--there hadn't been the slightest sign of self-pity in him--but for the comfort of her presence. "Just making sure," she said softly. She moved closer to him and slid her arm around his waist. "What about the rest of it?"

He hugged her to him for a moment without speaking. "Don't misunderstand what I'm about to say, but…too soon, Laura. Give me a chance to sort it out a little first."

"It's going to be hard to get used to, isn't it?"

"Exactly. It's--I haven't quite taken it in yet. Growing up the way I did, the squalor, ugly places, the people even uglier…Well, you know what it was like for me. And to be told that I come from such…_decency_…_"_

For some time they were quiet, arms around each other, thinking their separate thoughts. More than anything else, she itched to question him about Daniel's letter and final request, to hear him say how it had affected him, to explore what he wanted to do about it. But, applying the lessons she'd learned in Ireland, she knew it wasn't the time. Not in a situation like this, when his emotional equilibrium was shaky. Later, when the truth about himself had sunk in, they could talk about it.

It was he who finally broke the silence. "They were lovely, though, weren't they? My family. Lloyd and Lillian, my father and his sisters. Not that I imagine for a moment that they were perfect. But they look as though they loved each other. A handsome group, eh?"

"Very handsome. Especially your grandfather. Of course--" a slow, mischievous smile curved her lips--"there's a distinct possibility that I'm prejudiced ."

His reply was to cup her chin in his hand, turn her face up to his, and kiss her.

As soon as the door to their hotel room closed behind them, she stood on tiptoe, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, fully and lingeringly, on the mouth. "I'm so happy for you."

"I know you are. I can see it in your eyes." He released her only as long as it took to drop the album and bound research notes onto a nearby table before gathering her to him again.

After a while, they began to find it difficult to keep on their feet, so Laura drew him down with her onto the sofa. "Do you know what the best thing about it is?" he asked when they paused for breath.

"No, what?"

"Now, perhaps, you can be proud of me, the way you couldn't before."

Thunderstruck, she let her arms fall from his shoulders. She needed a few seconds to find her voice. "What?"

He seemed at a loss for words himself. "Those men, Laura," he said at last.

"What men?" And she glanced around, bewildered, as if the people he was talking about were in the room with them.

"The others, the ones who loved you before me…or wanted to. Lawyer, banker, stockbroker, scientist, even a fellow detective. So much to give you, all of them." His lashes lowered over his eyes and he turned his head aside, the way he always did when emotion embarrassed him. "And me without even a name of my own." The last sentence was almost inaudible.

Part of her was relieved that he wasn't looking, because tears were prickling behind her eyelids. Quickly she blinked them away. "Remington--my love--"

She had never called him that before. She heard his sharp little intake of breath.

"Did I ever say that? Did I ever do anything to make you think I thought it?"

"…No."

"Good. Because I would have to ask you to forgive me, and get down on my knees to do it."

The idea elicited a faint snort of laughter from him. Hand on his cheek, she made him look at her again.

"You _are_ different from those others. I won't deny it. None of them can measure up to you. You're tougher--and finer. They all had easy starts in life, so they take things for granted. You never do. You remember the hard things you suffered, so you're quick to see distress in other people, and reach out to help. Do you realize what a rare quality that is?"

"Your doing, Laura. I've told you before."

"No, it isn't." She shook her head decidedly. "Men who've had it easy--they're easily dismayed by setbacks. That's not you. You have strength and resiliency enough for ten men. And the quickest, nimblest mind--the most prodigious memory--I've ever seen in anyone. You constantly astonish me with the knowledge you have at your fingertips."

"That's a good thing?"

"A very good thing." She spoke slowly, trying to impress on him how much in earnest she was. "I meant it when I said I was happy for you, finding out how wonderful your family is. But it's for your sake I'm glad, not mine. I don't need it to think better of you. There's no way I could. I'm already proud of where you came from…what you've made of yourself…and who you are." And there she had to stop, because Remington had tightened his arms around her and was kissing her again.

The sweetness, the romance, made his next words seem all the more prosaic, when he was finally able to get them out. "It's been hours since lunch. Will you be wanting dinner soon, do you think?"

The contrast tickled her sense of the ridiculous, and she laughed. "I hadn't really thought about it. Why?"

"Because." He smiled at her. "Otherwise, I'm intending to make love to you."

The look in his eyes was the one she loved to see: deep tenderness, unmistakable desire. It was the look that had come to the surface in Ireland and had dwelt there in varying degrees ever since. A little anticipatory thrill went through her as he bent down to her again; her hand went around the back of his head to keep him there.

In the split second before their lips met, he said, "And Laura, I give you fair warning: I expect it to take a very, very long time..."

  

In the small hours of the morning, even before she was properly awake, Laura knew that she was alone in bed.

It was odd, how quickly she'd come to count on Remington's presence beside her at night. He had a habit of drawing close to her when they slept, one that she could trace all the way back to the first months of their relationship. They'd been hired to investigate thefts of morphine from a sleep clinic, and she'd assigned poor Remington the cover of habitual insomniac during the case. Frustrated by enforced wakefulness, he'd avoided his own bed, where he was supposed to be connected to monitoring equipment, and taken refuge as often as he could in hers. There they'd napped together, and there the pattern was established: his body cuddled against her, his arm draped around her waist, his head, more often than not, fitted right into the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

It was the same now that they were married. Even the handful of times when they'd gone to sleep separately, she'd found herself in his arms by morning. The first few weeks, she wasn't sure if she liked it. By this point, not only was she used to it, it was becoming a necessity--never as much as sleep, but running a very close second.

She sat up.

A thin wedge of light beneath the door to the sitting room provided the hint to his whereabouts. She got out of bed and made her way to the door, noiselessly turning the knob.

Only one lamp was lit, a standing brass one, and he'd moved it so that its light pooled on the sofa where he sat. His back to her, he was staring down at an object in his lap, every line of his posture indicating complete absorption.

She didn't have to see it to know his focus was the Chalmers family album.

For a long time she stood very still, watching him. When it began to feel as if she were intruding on a private moment, she closed the door and climbed back into bed. She curled on her side, grabbed his pillow, and wrapped her arms around it. It was clear she wouldn't sleep again until he came back, so she lay there, waiting for him.

And resolutely refused to examine the cold twist in her stomach that felt like apprehension, or even to acknowledge it was there in the first place.

  

The next afternoon found the Steeles standing before a painting mounted in the Victorian collection at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge.

They'd spent the morning in a whirlwind of activity around London. There was plenty of time for it. To all intents and purposes, they had concluded their business with Simon Edwards Solicitors; all that remained was to pick up the final checks, which would be disbursed tomorrow, and sign the final transfer of the trust. They would depart for Menton immediately afterward.

Laura couldn't help comparing it to their honeymoon, when Remington had taken her on a tour of his and Daniel's old haunts, the fullest, most revealing picture he had ever shown her of his shady past. He'd meant it as a statement of his trust in her, and that was how she'd taken it. Today, however, they were exploring not his personal history, but what tangible traces of his family heritage Alix Edwards had managed to track down.

"This is out of the ordinary for us, isn't it? The advance work already done by someone else, nothing to do but follow up?" she remarked as they set out.

"I must say, I much prefer it in this instance." He raised a hand, palm out, to forestall the quip he could see forming on her lips. "Not a commentary on the tedium of legwork. Just grateful she's saved us the time and energy so we can concentrate on her results."

They couldn't have done better themselves, they had to admit. Alix' research led them to the neighborhood in Chelsea, now a square of trendy townhouses, where the Chalmers' home once stood, and to a few of the theaters in which Lloyd had performed. At the public library in Kensington they found a reference work she'd listed in her notes, an encyclopedia of English draughtsmen of the previous century that contained two of David Chalmers' political cartoons from the 1870's. Other books on the list were histories of the English stage; these yielded snippets of information about Lloyd Chalmer's career. "Here's a mention of his work in New York, those plays of Mary Roberts Rinehart's," said Laura as she scanned her half of the material.

"Hm?" Remington was buried deep in a heavy tome. "Listen to this: '…as a Shakespearian actor, Chalmers was noted for his unstudied attitudes and fine, flexible tenor voice, ideally suited to comedic turns as Benedick and Petruchio.' "

"It seems they liked him in _An Ideal Husband_. '..Some of the most glowing reviews he received were for his performances inthe Lord Goring role, with critics unanimous in their praise of his light comic touch…His good looks, style and deft wit solidified his reputation as one of the leading talents of the 1930's.' " She appraised him with a gleam in her eye. "Looks, style and wit. Reminds me of one of your press clippings from home, Mr. Steele."

"I'll take that as the compliment I presume you intended it to be."

Another library, one in Richmond, yielded two of the books written and illustrated by Remington's distant cousin, John, _Songbirds of Rural England: an Ilustrated Guide _and _Field Guide to the Marsh Birds of Hampshire and Sussex. _Though the text held no interest for him, Remington lingered a long time over the accompanying watercolors, his expression thoughtful. Watching him, she wondered if he was comparing his own amateur efforts, or regretting the fact that the agency left him little time to pursue painting as a regular hobby.

They continued their wanderings. It occurred to her that in any other context she would have long ago lost her patience with this kind of spontaneity, irritated by its disorganization and inefficiency, appalled at the mounting cab fares. But today she was just as excited by the adventure as he was. After a lifetime of discounting himself as a castoff, a throwaway child, he had begun to realize that he really did belong to a solid line of people whose blood was the same as his, whose talents and appearance and characteristics had been passed down to him. He could leave the old labels he had for himself—bastard, man with no name—behind for good. And she was would be at his side to share it. It was incredible to watch, this dawn in him of a new kind of self-confidence; she wouldn't have missed it for the world. The little stab of trepidation from the night before was totally forgotten.

In a bookstore he made her search with him through the ghost story collections for as many of Mrs. Easby's tales as they could find. "But I already have these two," Laura objected as they approached the clerk with their purchases. "They're in storage with all the other stuff from the loft. I promise I'll dig them out as soon as we move to Windsor Square."

"Nonsense. It won't hurt to own another copy. What's a few pounds spent in the service of acquainting me with my family's accomplishments, eh? Besides, you'd said you initiate me into your ghost story mania. Tonight's as good a time to start as any."

"You're asking me to _read_ to you?"

"Why not? Remember how we listened to all those tapes of Charlotte Knight years ago, reading her stories aloud? I'd far rather listen to your lilting voice than hers—or her husband's, for that matter."

"You're starting to worry me. This family tree business is sending you around the bend!" But her tone was indulgent.

Their final stop in London was at Brompton Cemetery. There, along a tree-shaded walk not far from the Fulham Road gate, was his grandparents' burial site, with Peggy's grave directly adjacent. Lloyd and Lillian shared a single headstone; it was hard to tell from the brief inscription whether or not her body had actually been recovered from the Atlantic waters that claimed her life.

The Steeles were silent for a time. Another déjà vu moment, another parallel with their last visit to London, when they had visited a far different memorial, had them jointly in its thrall. At length, face set in lines of self-reproach, she looked up at him. "This makes me wish I hadn't been so hasty in getting together that monument for Daniel. I'm sorry. If only I'd waited a few weeks, we could've put it here, with them, where it belongs."

But he smiled at her tenderly and squeezed her hand. "No regrets allowed, Laura. Apart from becoming my wife, it's the loveliest gift you've ever given me. I wouldn't change a thing about it." He checked his watch. "Not even one o'clock yet. What would you say to a drive out to the Fitzwilliam Museum? It'll only take an hour and a half or so to get there. We can stop for lunch on the way."

And that was how they arrive at their first viewing of Ralph Chalmers' _The Defeat of Bois-Guilbert_.

It wasn't a large work, maybe five feet wide, with an impact that reached far beyond its actual size. Part of it was because its colors were brilliant and jewel-like in their clarity, from the people's clothing to the grass, foliage and flowers around them. But the energy and naturalness of its figures, along with the precision of their modeling, also held the eye. The scene depicted the conclusion of some kind of medieval contest of arms, judging by the dress and pose of its two central figures: one a dark-haired, clean-shaven knight wearing a white surcoat with a red cross over his armor, the other in chain mail with a cloak of homespun blue wool, bare-headed, his long flaxen locks blowing behind him. The dark knight was evidently the loser, just raising himself from the ground to his hand and knees. He was bereft of his lance, his broken shield lay on the ground beside him, and his courser was in the act of galloping away. His opponent sat his own horse in a watchful attitude and with his lance held perpendicular to the ground. In the left background a group of men dressed in the same tunic as the dark knight guarded a veiled, dark-eyed woman among them. Regarding the others with an air of intense concentration from the center background was a mounted knight in black armor whose helmet concealed his face completely, and a blonde maiden on a white palfrey. Her gown was the same shade of blue as the victorious fighter's cloak.

"_Ivanhoe_," Remington murmured. "MGM, 1952."

Laura checked the brochure for the capsule description, and found he was right: Ralph Chalmers had brought to life an episode from the Scott novel. "How did you know that?"

"Merely an item from the astonishing store of knowledge at my fingertips. Impressed you, have I?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Never mind, Mrs. Steele, I can see that I have." With his arm around her, he pointed to the various figures. "See here, this fallen horseman? He's meant to be the villain, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, played by George Sanders in the film. Here, the Knights Templar. This, Rebecca of York, Elizabeth Taylor. The Black Knight, Richard the Lion-hearted, Norman Wooland. This--Lady Rowena, Joan Fontaine. And astride, of course, Ivanhoe himself, Robert Taylor."

"I know him, don't I?" She plumbed her memory. "That movie with Vivien Leigh."

He twinkled at her. "_Waterloo Bridge_. Well done, Laura. You've gotten the hang of it."

"But I thought he had dark hair."

"Yes, Taylor was woefully miscast in the role of a blond Saxon. But what a jouster he was!"

Together they surveyed the painting again. No judge of art herself, she was intrigued by her husband's reaction, which was openly admiring. "Tell me something. Back in the days when you did that kind of thing for a living, would this have appealed to you as—well, marketable?"

"Laura, I'm shocked. Are you asking me if it's worth stealing?"

"Not quite, but since you put it that way…"

He mulled it over. "For its relative value? Well, painters of his school have been out of fashion for decades, and he wasn't a leading member of it to begin with. But for its intrinsic value, it's remarkable. Not, mind you, in the same class as _The Five Nudes of Cairo_ or the center panel of _The Bordeaux Triptych. _But a remarkable piece of work all the same. Makes me wonder if any others exist, and what happened to them." He glanced around at the other paintings on display. "You know, it would be a shame to come all this way without seeing the rest of the museum. Shall we?" And he offered her his arm.

But Laura was struggling to suppress a yawn. "That wine at lunch on top of jet-lag is a little too much for me. Would you mind if we just headed back?"

"Excellent suggestion. We'll start on the ghost stories on the way."

Southbound traffic to London was noticeably heavier than it had been traveling in the opposite direction, and it was close to four-thirty in the afternoon before their driver dropped them at the hotel. Even Remington's normally boundless energy was flagging a little as they approached the concierge for their messages. "None by telephone," was the reply. "But there's a gentleman who's been waiting for you in the lounge for the past half hour. If you'll permit me…"

Trading a swift glance, they trailed him in that direction, and waited while he tapped the shoulder of a stranger seated in an armchair. "Sir?"

The stranger tossed aside the magazine he was reading and raised his head.

The Steeles gaped.

For the man looked as Remington would have if he were six inches shorter and thirty pounds heavier, if his hair were sandy blond and his eyes hazel. His grin was identical to Remington's, with an extra dimension of cheerful, open-hearted friendliness.

He jumped up from the chair, hand out. "Remington Steele? Of course--I'd have known you anywhere. You're practically a twin of our granddad." He pumped Remington's hand heartily. "I'm your cousin, Robbie Dalgleish."

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"I always hoped to meet Uncle Daniel someday. Shame I'll never have the opportunity now. From everything I've heard, I'll bet he was marvelous," Robbie Dalgleish said.

Almost the first thing he'd done after meeting Remington and Laura was to invite them to join him for a drink in the St. John's lounge. They were seated at a table there now. They'd swiftly dispatched the mystery as to how he'd located them ("It's was all Mum's doing. She asked your solicitor to ring her with your arrival date and hotel, and she would've come herself, but she's in Edinburgh until Friday"), the excellent Scotch they were drinking had eased them past the first awkward moments, and they were on their way to becoming acquainted.

But Remington couldn't help betraying a little confusion, as well as surprise, at Robbie's reference to Daniel. "I'm sorry. His solicitor told us that he and your mother hadn't spoken for years, so naturally I assumed---"

"—that because he never spoke of her to you, she never spoke of him to us? Yes, I can see how that might be. Nor did she, much. Just that they'd had an awful row years ago and hadn't seen each other since. But we've plenty of other relations who knew and loved him. Uncle Walter used to tell a story about him, when he was about six or so, and lately arrived in London--" He broke off apologetically. "Daft of me. You've no idea who I'm talking about. Grandad had five brothers, the great-uncles, Henry, Tom, Edward, Richard and Walter. The others are gone, but Uncle Walter's still with us, spry as ever, though he's eighty-six, God bless him. Then there's Mum's cousins, who all remember Uncle Daniel like they'd seen him yesterday. He was a great favorite, your dad was."

"It sounds like you're a very close family," commented Laura.

"We are that," Robbie agreed. "That's why they felt the gap, when Uncle Daniel dropped out of sight. They most of them expected him to step into Granddad's shoes after he was killed."

"Do you remember our grandfather?" Remington asked.

"Me? Far too young. I'm the baby of the family, born in '53. Arch—my brother Archie, four years older than me---doesn't remember him, either, obviously. Our older brother, Jock, claims _he_ does, though he'd have been two when Granddad died. He's got five kids of his own, so you'd think he'd know how unlikely it is, but there you are." He was smiling with tolerant affection as he sipped his drink. "Well," he added when he had put his glass down, "here's one good thing come out of it. I'd always hoped to meet you at last, as well as Uncle Daniel. I imagined us as great chums, so close in age as we are."

If Remington had been surprised before, now his astonishment knew no bounds. "You knew about me?"

"Of course. We all do. Your dad could hardly have kept you a secret from everyone, even if he'd wanted to." Robbie took in his expression. "My dear fellow, is it possible you don't realize? You've a very important place in the Chalmers family. Never mind; it's clear you don't. My God. Uncle Daniel really did play things close to the vest, didn't he?"

"To be completely honest, the first I'd ever heard anything of the family was yesterday, when the solicitor told me about you."

"My God," Robbie said again. He leaned back in his chair, his pleasant, open face completely dumbfounded. It was clear that this possibility had never occurred to him. "That does beat all! He dropped out of sight sometime in the fifties, you see, soon after you were born. Not a word, not a line, has anyone had from him since. Some of the family tried to find him, but there wasn't a trace, so the conclusion was that he'd either left the country or died. Where was he all that time?"

There was the briefest of pauses while Remington searched for an answer that would neither compromise the truth nor reveal its more unsavory aspects. "I can't speak for my babyhood. But from the time I was fourteen onwards he and I lived here, in London."

His cousin stared. "In _London_? How can that be? Surely some of us would've known it!"

Remington and Laura were silent, unable to say to Robbie what they both knew perfectly well: that the consummate conman Daniel Chalmers was more than capable of hiding himself and his son in a city of over seven million so that they couldn't be found.

He was thinking along the same lines. "I suppose he made sure that we shouldn't know it. That would explain it. Ah, well, water under the bridge. And it's not likely our paths, yours and mine, would've crossed here in any case. We were brought up in Gloucestershire, you see." He brightened. "But you must have a million questions, old fellow! I know I would in your shoes. What can I tell you? Where do you want to start?"

Laura watched the play of emotions across Remington's face. He seemed torn by indecision between relaxing with his cousin and thus satisfying his hunger for information, or keeping his defenses up. Self-protection won. "If you don't mind--Ralph Chalmers. There's something I've been wondering."

"Let me guess: you've heard about _The Defeat of Bois-Guilbert_? It's at the Fitzwilliam Musuem in Cambridge, if you want to see it."

"I know. We've just returned from there."

"Have you! You certainly didn't waste any time. What did you think? A peach, isn't it?"

"So good that I'm surprised there's not more of his work about. Or is there?"

"Lord, yes. Problem was, the dear old boy was prone to giving his stuff as gifts, rather than trying to sell it. Well, he probably couldn't have, back in the day; he was right on the cusp when the Victorians were going out of fashion, and Matisse and his lot were coming in. What there is of his work is either in his grandkids' hands, or in private collections." Robbie eyed him curiously. "You don't, by any chance, go in for that line yourself, painting? You'd certainly be a typical Chalmers if you did."

"I dabble a little." Remington shrugged, self-deprecating. "I did take a commercial arts course, in lieu of university."

Robbie's eyes lit up. "You're not serious? So did I, at the Royal College! Where were you?"

"The College of Arts and Design for a term or two."

Unnoticed by the two men, Laura frowned. Though she'd contributed little to the conversation, she was listening closely, particularly to her husband, struggling to pick up what cues she could from him. But she was at a distinct disadvantage. His cousin's unexpected appearance had afforded them no time to coordinate a story; she was entirely in the dark as to what Remington wanted to disclose or conceal about his history with Daniel. Her innate sense of caution had kept her silent but alert, ready to back him up in whatever cover he felt he needed to contrive.

But the ring of truth in what he'd just said acted on her like a slap in the face. A few years ago he'd let drop a hint in an unguarded moment about his commercial art training. When she'd asked about it, he'd deflected her by a deft change of subject, one of the classics in his repertoire of evasive moves. Yet here he was, not even acquainted with Robbie Dalgleish for an hour, relating the details to him without a second thought! No wonder it stung her.

The sting was replaced immediately by a wave of guilt. Just how selfish could she be? She knew better than almost anyone how miserable his early life had been at the hands of those who called themselves his family. So why was she acting like the kind of insecure, possessive kind of woman she especially detested, resenting his discovery of a common interest with the first relative to reach out to him in friendship? She felt her face grow hot, and was glad that his focus was on his cousin rather than her.

"…and some rather well-known designs," Robbie was saying. "The poster for _A Clockwork Orange_? The Rolling Stones' logo? Anyway, it guaranteed I could virtually write my own ticket when I graduated, so I went straight into advertising. Did very well, but always hankered for my own design shop. Five years ago I started it; we've been going like a house afire ever since. Graffix, it's called. I'd love to show it to you. What about tomorrow?"

"We'd planned to leave tomorrow for the Riviera, actually." Remington hesitated, glancing at Laura. "What do you think, darling? Could we put it off for a day?"

She couldn't disregard the eagerness she saw in him, even if she wanted to. "I don't see why not."

Beaming at them, Robbie resembled Remington more than ever. "Excellent! Why don't we say one o'clock? We'll have a bite, you can meet Kate, my wife, I can really show you round, and then, how about this? Arch and Rowena aren't too far away, Chelsea, as a matter of fact. What about the four of us take you to dinner? We can have a go at your questions about the family."

"Splendid," said Remington.

"You know Hammersmith? I thought you might. Here's the address." Robbie drew a ballpoint from an inner pocket of his sports coat and scribbled on a napkin, which he passed to Remington when finished. "We'll dine at Selkirk's tomorrow night. It's 'casual garb', as they say, so no need to dress. Oh, blast"--this as he caught sight of his watch and smacked a hand to his forehead—"I'd forgotten. I must fly. Til tomorrow, then. Laura? Remington? A pleasure." And with a final enthusiastic handshake for each of them, he departed.

There was a broad smile on Remington's face as he watched Robbie go. "What an engaging chap, eh? In some ways, it's as if I've known him for years." He turned to her. "My God, Laura. I'm beginning to believe this trip may be worth it, after all!"

What else she could she do but agree? Almost anything _was_ worth it to her, if it could kindle that light in his eyes, ignite the radiance of his smile.

She could deal with her own re-emerging disquiet later.

  

Graffix occupied the entire ninth floor of a Hammersmith Road office building, a contemporary steel-and-glass edifice that would have been thoroughly at home in Century City, Laura thought. In the same way, Graffix' reception office, though not an exact duplicate, reminded her of their own: a backdrop of gray carpet and walls, against which rioted an extraordinary range of color in the form of assorted framed prints, samples of the company's work. While the receptionist went to inform Robbie they'd arrived, Remington stooped to examine these, strolling from one to the next with his hands in his pockets.

This morning she'd managed to bring him down to earth long enough to talk about how forthcoming he wanted to be with his cousins. Of course there were wide swaths of his past—his conman days, with and without Daniel—that would always remain forbidden territory, no matter how close he might become one day with Robbie and Archie. But how much of his childhood should he reveal? In the end, he'd decided that transparency about the time frame of his reunion with his father was okay ("when you think about it, Laura, it's not so unusual for a child of divorce not to know the absent parent"). But about the circumstances surrounding the reunion, the nature of their relationship and the secrecy with which Daniel had shrouded it until his death, he would maintain his silence. Let them draw the inference that he was ignorant of the family because of his father's quarrel with their mother. It was much safer, and less likely to excite questions.

In the meantime, there was a serious glitch in the rest of their plans, exceedingly frustrating—to her, at least. The only flight to Nice with open seats was on Sunday morning, which would leave them all of Saturday at loose ends in London. It was a good thing the St. John had had a cancellation so that they could extend their stay. Worse, when they'd arrived at Simon Edwards that morning for Remington's appointment, it was to the news of a delay in the transfer of the trust, which meant that he couldn't sign in the notary's presence until the following Friday. "Another week away from the office!" she'd fumed on the way to Graffix. "How are we supposed to explain it to Jim Demerest? Not to mention all the money we're throwing away on plane fares and hotel rooms!"

But Remington had taken it all in stride. "Now, Laura, icy calm, eh? We're newly one hundred and twenty thousand dollars to the good, don't forget, give or take some change. Not that it matters, because the hotel fees end the minute we set foot on the Riviera. We'll simply stay at the Villa Montreuil until Friday morning, that's all. As for Mr. Demerest, leave him to me. I'll handle him."

How those words would have filled her with dread as recently as two years ago! Nowadays, they had the power to coax a faint smile to her lips. Briefly she'd leaned against him. Her husband; her partner. What a long way they'd come.

The door to the reception area was flung open and Robbie burst into the room. "Remington and Laura, right on time! Here's my wife, Kate."

There was a tiny suggestion of amusement in Laura's smile as she shook hands with her cousin-in-law. Young as they were, the Dalgleishes already fit, in physique, if not in coloring, the dictum that marriage partners begin to resemble one another more and more alike with each passing year. Kate was short and solidly built, but not plump; her figure ran to muscle rather than fat. Her dark hair was cut in a simple chin-length bob, and her gray eyes held a kind of grave friendliness. "I've asked them to hold a table for us at a pub on the riverfront. You won't mind walking? The view's stunning, and the food's great."

"Robbie, I'm speechless, mate," Remington put in. "These designs are like none I've ever seen before. Well done."

"Thanks! Plenty more where those came from. You'll see. Right now we'd better hurry, if we don't want to lose our table."

The pub was charming and atmospheric, its entrance off a cobbled side street. The painted sign above the door depicted a white dove with an olive frond in its beak framed by a rainbow. "Been here before, have you?" Robbie asked Remington as they made their way through the saloon bar to the terrace.

"I can't say that I have."

"William Morris lived next door, they say. They also serve Fuller's, which if you ask me is much more of a draw."

Soon they were comfortably ensconced at a riverside table with a round of drinks before them. Laura raised her eyebrows in mock disbelief at the sight of her husband, connoisseur of the priciest champagne, discriminating purchaser of Armagnac and French wines, downing ale with the best of them. He twinkled back at her. When in Rome, eh, Mrs. Steele? his look seemed to say. She had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from sputtering with laughter.

Robbie and Kate had missed the silent dialogue. "We'll make it a light meal, shall we?" Kate was saying. "It would be a pity to ruin your appetites for Selkirk's. Maybe we could take a roundabout route back to the office, walk off lunch and give you a chance to sightsee—Laura, at any rate. Is this your first visit to London?"

"My third or fourth, depending on how you look at it. We were here last September, and then twice in May, traveling to and from Ireland for our honeymoon," said Laura.

"Honeymoon! You're newlyweds?" exclaimed Robbie.

"Indeed we are," Remington replied. "Two months as of Tuesday."

"Fantastic! Congratulations!" And Robbie rose to kiss Laura's cheek and shake Remington's hand.

"That answers my next question, which was whether you have any children." added Kate, smiling at Laura, as their waitress approached and dexterously slid their meals onto the table.

"Afraid not. Do you?"

"Two boys, Adair and Adam. Adair's nine, Adam's six and a half. I know you'll forgive me, for it's the American way to ask such things, but do you have a career as well as being married?"

Laura laughed. "It's definitely an American thing to ask, and you don't have to apologize. Remington and I are private detectives. We're partners in an agency, Remington Steele Investigations."

The Steeles waited, smiling, for the inevitable reaction. They were used to fielding them by now, the eager questions, the curiosity and excitement and wistful desires to emulate them. With one accord, they flashed back to just such a conversation a little less than two months ago, in which a spellbound Donald and a reluctantly admiring Frances had hung on their every word.

But Robbie and Kate were looking at them blankly. There was an awkward pause. "Sorry to expose my ignorance," Robbie said at last. "But I'm not quite sure what you mean. Do you work with the police, the way they do in films?"

"I think it's guarding people, Rob, like the detectives the royal family have. Or finding proof of wrongdoing, for a divorce—but no. Surely not?" said Kate. She sounded almost dismayed by the prospect.

"It's neither, actually," Remington said, after a glance at Laura. "Although we do work with the police from time to time. In fact, it was Laura who solved the Whitechapel Slasher case here last fall—apprehended the perpetrator, unmasked him to Scotland Yard." And he beamed with pardonable pride.

"Gruesome business," said Robbie, while Kate suppressed a shudder.

Their lukewarm attitude deflated even Remington. Perplexity extinguished his smile. "Yes, well…those cases are few and far between. More typically, our clients engage us to find something or someone: missing gems, for example, long-lost relatives, errant business partners…"

"Occasionally we provide protection for valuables in transit, too," said Laura. "And we specialize in electronic security systems for entities like museums and corporations. But none of the kind of personal surveillance necessary for a divorce, taking pictures, following people. That's just not work we're willing to do. Our service is more--how should I say it—"

"Exclusive?" Remington suggested. "High end? High-toned?"

"Exactly."

"How…nice," Kate murmured.

There was another uneasy silence. Again, Robbie was the one to break it. "Now, now, everyone. This is the wrong way round! It's meant to be Remington asking us questions, and us supplying the answers. Go ahead, old fellow. Ask away!"

For the rest of lunch, they stuck to safer subjects. Here Robbie took the lead in an evident desire to acquaint his newfound cousin with their family. Like Remington, he was naturally voluble, a born storyteller, and Laura felt her initial liking for him deepen into genuine warmth. The anecdotes he related and the way he told them revealed a lot; it seemed their first impression of him as good-hearted and uncomplicated, without a drop of malice in him, was accurate. Neither did it escape her notice how he was unconsciously influencing Remington to let down his guard. It was the little signs that told her: his increasing willingness to answer questions about Daniel and his parents' divorce, the fact that he was volunteering more frequent glimpses of his life in London. It wasn't complete trust—that would take far longer than a single afternoon to build—but it was a good start.

The talk was so absorbing that none of them realized how long they'd lingered over the remnants of the meal until Kate happened to glance at her wristwatch. "Rob, we'd best get back if we're to messenger those proofs to Gillooly before close of business."

"Do you and Robbie work together?" Laura asked her as they departed the pub. The husbands had stridden ahead, leaving her and Kate to follow at their leisure.

"It's been our common dream, Graffix has, ever since school. We were together at the Royal College of Art. You've heard of it?"

"Robbie mentioned yesterday that he'd studied there."

"I did well enough as a designer, but I've more of a bent towards management. That's how we divide our responsibilities in the company. Rob runs the design end, I run the business end."

Kate excused herself upon their arrival at Graffix with a promise to catch up with them later. "I'll give the grand tour now, shall I?" asked Robbie. "Not that it's much to see. But it might bring back memories of your own days at art school."

It was all understatement, they soon discovered, especially when they came to the two enormous design studios. "Conventional wisdom says we ought to have pursued either commercial design or advertising at the expense of the other," Robbie explained. "But I couldn't make up my mind. In the end, we decided to try both. It's working so far, but it doesn't do to mix the two, in terms of artists and space."

Both were furnished with rows of cubicles where designers bent over drawing tables or, in a few cases, fixed his or her concentration on a computer monitor. In the advertising studio, Robbie paused. "Now meet some of our cousins," he said to the Steeles. He beckoned to three of the designers. "Lucy. Peter. Christopher. Could I have a moment?"

Curious glances followed the trio as they obeyed the summons. "Lucy Ramsay, Peter Dale and Christopher Chalmers," Robbie introduced them one by one. "Our cousin, Remington Steele, and his wife, Laura. Lucy's and Peter's granddad is Great-Uncle Henry," he added. "Their mum would be your dad's cousin, Barbara Dale. And Christopher's dad and granddad are Cousin Tom and Great-Uncle Tom."

"Robbie's told us you were here," said Lucy amid the subsequent greetings and handshakes. "Super to meet you at last. Such a shame about Cousin Daniel; my mother's awfully cut up over it. Her favorite cousin, you know. Are you in London for long?"

Remington had that look about him that signaled he was feeling a trifle off-balance, Laura noted. "Just until Sunday."

"What a shame," Lucy said again. "I've been so looking forward to getting to know you."

"Me, as well," added her brother, Peter.

"Perhaps you'll return soon for a longer visit. Remember there's always an open door for you both in Shepherd's Bush when you do," put in Christopher.

"And Fulham," said Lucy.

"Or Notting Hill," said Peter.

Bidding them a cordial farewell, the cousins went back to their drawing tables. Remington turned to Robbie, bemused. "They acted as if meeting me is a matter of course, nothing surprising about it."

"I told you, old fellow—we all of us have been hoping you'd turn up someday. Come along now. Let me show you my studio."

It took longer to get there than they might have expected, due to the fact that the corridor walls resembled a gallery, hung with matted and framed prints like the ones in the reception area. The Steeles moved through it slowly so as not to miss anything. Even Laura's untrained eye recognized that there was an indefinable element that set them apart from the common run, the ubiquitous visual clutter she ordinarily overlooked. "They're good, aren't they?" she asked Remington in an undertone.

"Almost uncannily so. Approaching genius, I'd say." He looked around for his cousin. "Are these all your own work?"

Robbie hesitated. "For the most part…but keep in mind, we work as a team here."

"He's being modest," said Kate, who had just come up behind them. "He's creative director, as well as designer, so even when it's not actually his project, it's his influence behind it." And she wrapped her arm around her husband's waist.

"Hush, woman, you're embarrassing me. Normally she's my sternest critic," he confided to the Steeles.

Remington nodded in sympathy. "I'm familiar with the feeling, I assure you."

Robbie's personal studio was at the farthest end of the corridor from the reception area. Converted from a corner office, its windows faced north and east, flooding it with indirect light. In contrast with the larger studios, a sort of cheerful disorder reigned here: stacks of books and magazines teetering on the seats of chairs or the floor, a portable stereo with a haphazard pile of cassettes on a card table, photos and clippings and posters tacked in no discernible pattern all over the walls. There wasn't a desk, but a drawing board and stool stood in the west window, an easel in the north window.

Beaming, Robbie watched as they absorbed it all. "It's grand, isn't it? I'd always dreamed of a room like this to work in, ever since I was a kid. Kate surprised me with it when we first moved into the offices, which I suppose entitles her to act as critic." The Dalgleishes smiled at each other.

"You paint, do you?" Remington indicated the palette and easel with another nod of his head.

"With about the same degree of skill as you, I should imagine: a dabbler, no more. But I mean to get better at it." He regarded Remington thoughtfully for a moment. "I wonder if you can help me with something. Come along."

He led them back to a room they'd seen earlier, one in which he normally gathered his staff for brainstorming sessions. Sitting them down at the conference table, he propped an object on an easel in front of them. "Have a look at this and tell me what you think."

The easel held a large poster, a glossy black background with the words "En Cabaret" emblazoned on it in fuchsia script, above a black and white photo of a couple wearing berets and seated at a bistro table. "Advertising collateral for a new martini club," said Robbie. "It's called En Cabaret. Art Deco, thirties, glamour, that's the mood our client's going for. This is the fourth approach we've pitched, and they hated it worse than all the others. Here, catch." He tossed an artist's block to Remington, followed by a pack of ink pencils. "Make believe you're in school again, and you've just been given an assignment. What would you do differently, if you were me?"

It was a challenge, all right, and one from so far out of left field that Laura felt herself immediately jump to a defensive posture, emotionally speaking. It was what she'd been dreading for the past two days. Her instincts had betrayed her; she had grossly misjudged Robbie; here, out in the open, was the blow, the latent spite, for which she'd been unconsciously bracing herself on her husband's behalf since their meeting with Alix Edwards.

But Remington wasn't in the least threatened. In fact, a slow grin was lighting his face. "Thirties, Art Deco and glamour, eh?" He raised an eyebrow at his cousin.

Robbie arched his own brow in response, his grin a mirror image of Remington's, but said nothing.

A few seconds ticked by while Remington gazed into space, the smile fading, his brow now furrowed in concentration. Then he picked up a black pencil and began to draw.

Laura couldn't look away from him. Head bent over the tablet, he sketched with firm, confident strokes, the way she remembered him cartooning a few years back as part of a case. They'd cooked up a plan to gaslight a suspect, an artist who inked "The Blaster" comic strip and had, they felt sure, murdered its author. Remington had drawn a series of "Blaster" mock-ups so expert in their execution that they impressed even the publisher who handled the real strip. Better yet, they'd fooled the murderer into giving himself away, though he'd been killed before the Steele agency could turn him over to the police.

What was taking shape now under his swift-moving fingers? A couple in thirties evening dress—long, flowing, backless gown and marcelled blond hair on the woman, a black dinner jacket and bow tie on the man—dancing on a stage beneath a single pin spot. He was using color now, adding bold dashes of silver to suggest the contrast between dark and light, scarlet and royal blue to highlight the sweeping curves and chevrons and trapezoids he'd used to embellish the stage. The picture was by no means perfect; he'd put it on paper too quickly for that. But it had definite flair, as far as she could tell, striking and original.

He was finished. He turned the pad over for Robbie's and Kate's appraisals and sat back, arms folded.

The Dalgleishes studied it for a long time without speaking. It was funny, Laura thought: there was nothing whatever at stake, and yet she was literally on the edge of her seat, almost holding her breath in suspense. Remington, in the meantime, waited in perfect unconcern, his eyes smiling back at her when she glanced over at him.

"Remington, dear fellow?" Robbie had lifted his head at last. He was grinning even more widely than ever, if that was possible. "If ever you and Laura decide to chuck the detective agency, there's a place for you at Graffix." He paused while Kate murmured an assent. "You're a natural. One of the artistic Chalmers through and through."

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Midway through Saturday afternoon, Remington and Laura arrived at Bonnymead, Adair and Lillian Dagleish's home in Gloucestershire, to join the entire Dalgleish clan for dinner.

Archie Dalgleish had initiated the invitation over dinner at Selkirk's the night before. "Mother's keen to meet you, as you might expect," he'd said in his warm, rolling baritone. "And the timing couldn't be better, what with you postponing your departure from London until Sunday, and them back from Edinburgh for two weeks. It might be months before we could arrange it again. Do say you'll come, and I'll propose us all to Mother." And he had smiled winningly at them.

He was as tall as Remington, but otherwise dissimilar in every way, his height more shambling and loose-jointed, his brown hair thinning, his brown eyes bespectacled. But he and his wife, Rowena, were plainly determined to make their new cousins welcome. It wasn't long before it felt as if they'd been friends all their lives.

There were a few uncomfortable moments, though, centered, as with Robbie and Kate, on the Steeles' profession. Archie's and Rowena had reacted with the same combination of puzzlement and disapproval. Archie tried to counter it by joking that he would come to them in future for advice when he was working on a new plot; it turned out that he was a writer of ecclesiastical mysteries ("rather like Aunt Edina's, only my hero sees, shall we say, a shade more _skin_ than poor old Colherne did"), with two published novels under his belt. But it was too late to gloss over the faux pas. Where the odd prejudice had been disconcerting to Remington and Laura in the afternoon, now it was annoying, and they couldn't quite conceal the fact.

The annoyance had dissipated well before they set out the next day in a rental car for Gloucestershire. The trip west was long—a good two hours—but the scenery relieved the tedium. Once past Oxford, they began to wish they'd brought a camera to capture the smooth green fields and farmland and the small towns, and, in the Cotswolds, cottages built of honey-colored stone that reminded Laura of their new house in Windsor Square. All of it was very picturesque, even to confirmed urbanites like them.

In Cheltenham they missed a turn, which meant doubling back to pick up the right road towards Tewksbury. Before very much longer, they were pulling through the gates of Bonnymead.

It wasn't the impressive estate its name suggested, but only a sizable house, not nearly as large as Ashford castle, or even a Bel Air mansion. There were other cars parked on the circular drive before it; Remington pulled up with a flourish behind them. Instead of reaching for the door handle, however, he hesitated. Then he turned to her. She thought he was probably unaware how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel.

She put a hand over one of his. "Nervous?"

"Over a family dinner? Don't be ridiculous." He exhaled a deep breath and relaxed his hold on the wheel. "No reason whatever to be nervous."

"None whatever," she agreed, and kissed his cheek.

He sauntered around the car to open her door and usher her towards Bonnymead's front entrance, elegant, dashing, seemingly imperturbable in his sunglasses and silver-gray suit and ice blue tie. But the hand that rested in its customary spot at the small of her back wasn't quite steady. "Stick close, will you?" he said under his breath.

"Like glue, Mr. Steele," she murmured.

A woman in a flowered apron opened the door to them—not his aunt, they quickly discovered, but the housekeeper. She led them across a large hall, paneled in oak, and up a wide central staircase to a guest room where they could freshen up. "I'll tell Mrs. Dalgleish you've arrived. When you're ready to come down, you're to join them in the drawing room—left at the bottom of the stairs, the lefthand door. The rest of the family are here and waiting for you."

They took turns in the adjacent bath. Waiting for Remington to finish, Laura gave her own appearance a last check in the cheval glass that stood in the corner of the room. The calf-length black dress with its shoulders straps and fringed waist and hem was one she'd worn before. She knew she looked well in it, and would pass muster easily with the rest of the Dalgleish family. Not that she was wasting a second on worrying about what they would think of her. Her concern was for him, for the meeting with his aunt that he'd been half anticipating, half dreading, for the attention that would be focused on him in a few minutes. This was one occasion when she didn't envy him the spotlight.

He emerged from the bathroom and immediately sought her with his eyes. "Ready?" she asked as she crossed the room.

"As I'll ever be, I suppose."

Briefly she fussed over him, brushing off the speckless shoulders of his jacket, smoothing his perfectly aligned lapels, straightening his impeccably knotted tie. It was the same impulse that had guided her just before his meeting with the Earl of Claridge last fall: trying somehow to communicate support to him through the tenderness of her touch. He stood patiently the whole time, watching her, a lopsided little smile on his lips.

When she was satisfied with her handiwork, she raised one hand to stroke his cheek. "She's going to love you."

"And you know this because…?" His arms encircled her waist.

"Years of experience tell me she won't be able to help herself."

"Ah," he said, holding her to him. She could hear his heart pounding and tightened her embrace, praying that everything would go well for him this time.

At length he released her and took her hand. "Once more into the breach, eh?"

Fingers entwined, they slowly descended the stairs. At the door to the drawing room they paused. She saw him swallow and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He squared his shoulders in response and suddenly, visibly, assumed the easy confidence, the openness and charm, with which he usually presented himself to strangers.

They stepped inside.

Laura's confused first impression was of a larger group than they'd anticipated, a crowd, even, consisting of a dozen adults and almost as many children. As they advanced, the hum of chatter that had preceded their entrance abruptly cut off. All eyes turned to them in the silence.

But Robbie, who no doubt had been watching for them, detached himself at once from the others and came forward. "Here you are at last, Remington, old fellow, and Laura. Made it with no trouble, I see. Come in, come in! You'll join us in a glass of wine?" While he talked he was shepherding them towards an elderly woman seated alone on a settee situated deeper in the room. "Here's our Mum."

Lillian Dalgleish had risen to her feet at their approach. "Thank you, Robbie." To Remington she added: "I see that my sons haven't exaggerated. You're very, very like my father."

Conversation began again in the room around them. She stepped close to Remington and put her hands on his shoulders, frankly appraising him. He suffered it without protest, though he did shift his weight from foot to foot. If his aunt remarked it, she gave no sign, nor made any effort to put him at ease.

From her place at his side, Laura was performing a scrutiny of her own. Lillian Dalgleish didn't look like anyone else in the family, not her parents, her brother, or the two sons they'd met. She was tall—in the high heels she affected in defiance of her age, her eyes were almost on a level with Remington's—and slender. It wasn't a graceful slenderness, but angular, sinewy. Her vigorous iron-gray hair was cut short, and the long face and square jaw from her childhood photos were unchanged.

"Yes, very like my father," Lilllian repeated. She let go of Remington. "Well, my dear. Welcome. I'm glad to meet you again after so many years." This provoked a startled gasp from him, and she smiled slightly. "Don't distress yourself. You couldn't possibly be expected to remember me. When first I saw you, you were a day old, and two or three weeks old the last time. Now, forgive the lapse in my manners"—turning her attention to Laura—"this is your wife?"

"Yes, this is Laura, Mrs.—ah--"

"None of that. You'll call me Aunt Lillian, of course, and so shall you, Laura. You're to think of yourself as much my niece as Remington is my nephew. Ah, Robbie," as her son approached with two glasses of wine. "You'll do the honors, and introduce Remington and Laura to everyone? I shall monopolize you shamelessly at dinner," she told them, "so the others must take their chances while they may. Until dinner, then." It was a polite, but unmistakable, dismissal, underscored by the fact that she beckoned a couple of her granddaughters to join her.

Now that the first meeting with his aunt was over, Laura found she could concentrate much better on their surroundings. There weren't really crowds of people in the drawing room, only Remington's three cousins, their wives and children, and his uncle Adair.

It was to Adair and his eldest son that Robbie led them first. "Our dad and our other brother, whom you've heard me speak of. He's called John Carmichael officially, but to us boys he's always been Jock. Much easier on us, and you, too, I expect, hey, old man?"

"The other is a bit of a mouthful," John Carmichael admitted as he shook their hands. "But Mother's awfully attached to it, and what she says, goes." He and his father were very similar, of medium height, stocky, with graying sandy hair—almost completely gray in Adair's case—greenish-hazel eyes and steady, humorous mouths. Both seemed rather reserved, not unkind by any means, but lacking the lively spark that Robbie possessed. The latter, Laura concluded, was evidently a Chalmers trait.

They lingered, getting acquainted, sipping their wine. Robbie stepped away. John Carmichael's wife, Aileen, joined them; with her help, Laura was able to sort out the children's identities. "The big boys—well, young men, really—are our three eldest: Jamie, Andrew and Alec. That's our Charlotte with her grandmother, and her great friend, Julia, Archie and Rowena's eldest. They're both fifteen. Archie's David is over there with our youngest, Caroline; the little fair girl is Archie's youngest, Emily, and the little boys are Adair and Adam, Robbie's sons." Laura thought she would've known the last two, who were stubby miniatures of their father, anywhere.

When dinner was announced, the Steeles joined the general exodus across the main hall to the dining room. On the surface, Remington appeared relaxed, but Laura sensed tension and watchfulness underneath. The welcome he'd received hadn't altogether reassured him, then. A passing frown creased her brow. She remembered her promise to stay close, and hoped the seating arrangements wouldn't force her to renege on it.

They didn't. His aunt Lillian had seated him at her right hand, with Laura at his left. Surprisingly, John Carmichael was across from Remington, with his son Jamie next to him, while Robbie's place was on Laura's other side. In all there were fifteen around the table, the smaller children having been relegated to the kitchen for the duration.

Dinner was overseen by the housekeeper and a maid, which gave Lillian the freedom to participate in--or rather, direct--the conversation. "Robbie tells me that you're only recently married," she said to the Steeles as the soup course was being served.

"May tenth," said Remington, "after a five-year courtship."

"How refreshingly old-fashioned. And you work together, as well, as private detectives? I shouldn't have thought it a suitable profession for a well-brought up young woman." And she raised her eyebrows at Laura.

Instantly a sarcastic retort popped into Laura's head, the kind she would've used without hesitation in other situations to put a skeptic in his or her place. For Remington's sake she bit it back. "My mother says the same thing."

"Does she? It could be she has a point."

"The work's not as rough-and-tumble as you might think, Aunt Lillian," put in Remington. "It requires brains rather than brawn, and Laura has heaps of them. Too much for her own good at times. She's highly thought of—a sterling reputation, really—among our peers as well as our clients."

"Thank you, dear," said Laura, her lips twitching with suppressed amusement. It was downright endearing, the way he had begun these days to leap immediately to her defense at the slightest hint of criticism. Secretly she thought the role of knight in shining armor suited him very well, whether she needed it or not.

"You're welcome."

Lillian, however, remained unimpressed. "Does she," she said again. "Someday you must explain in more detail what it is you do." Her gaze slid over to Remington. "And your home is in California? I remember it fondly. Our grandfather—your great-grandfather—lived there, and we stayed with him in the winters when we lived in America."

"So my father's lawyer told me. Where was that, exactly?"

"Anaheim. Do you know it?"

Did they know it? The Steeles exchanged a glance. By pure coincidence, it was city they'd chosen as the fictitious base of operations for their stockbroker alter egos, John Case and Linda Seton. "I do," Laura replied. "We used to go to Disneyland once a year when I was a kid. But I don't think Remington's been there yet."

"I haven't, but now I'll make a point of it. Have we any family left there?" he asked his aunt.

"I imagine not. My mother was an only child, you see, and my grandfather has been dead since early in the Second World War. My sons tell me that you grew up in London, that you lived there with your father? I must confess it came as a bit of a shock. I was sure he must have left the country, and that was why none of us heard from him again. Instead he deliberately chose to stay out of touch. And made it a point to keep you ignorant of us. Unconscionable, if you ask me."

Remington blinked at her outspokenness, but said nothing.

The maids were clearing away the soup bowls now and serving the main course, and Lillian waited until they'd withdrawn before speaking again. "I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I see little sense in beating about the bush. Of course I'm aware that my boys have told you about the estrangement between my brother and me. I'm as much to blame for it as he was…and I do regret not having patched it up before it was too late. But I should like you to tell me what you can about him, those missing years. Where in London did you stay?"

This was a subject he'd been determined to dodge, if he could. "Nowhere permanent. It was rather a nomadic life we led. The longest was in West Hampstead."

"West Hampstead." Lillian looked thoughtful. "And what was his business?"

"He was hard to peg in that respect, Daniel was. I suppose you could call him a Renaissance man. Had a wide variety of interests. Importing and exporting, consulting on art and antiques, that sort of thing."

"Then he wasn't involved in the theater in any capacity?"

"Good Lord, no." Remington showed his surprise. "Not that I know of. Should he have been?"

"He was destined for it from childhood. Did he never tell you? Our parents always planned for him to attend the RADA—the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. It was to be his official entrée to the family profession, one might say."

There was a pause. "Daniel, an actor?" he said wonderingly.

"Oh, yes. From childhood he was meant to carry on Lloyd Chalmers' reputation. It was my father's dearest wish. Does that surprise you? It shouldn't. It's more surprising, considering the way we were brought up, that Daniel _didn't_ go on the stage."

Remngton didn't reply. Laura, for her part, was thinking that if what Lillian said were true, it would explain a lot about Daniel. That was a topic she and her husband would explore in private, where there was no risk of being overheard. Now she said only, "Was he a professional actor as a child?"

"Our father forbade it. He'd apprenticed himself at a young age, and quickly became a success, but it was difficult, so he was adamant that Daniel have the proper training first. But he and Peggy—our younger sister—went in for dramatics very heavily while they were at school. I was the only one exempt from the mania." There was an undercurrent of bitterness in her voice.

"I imagine it was the war that turned him from acting," offered Remington. "He said to me, not long before he died, that it changed people—made them settle for things as they were, instead of hoping for something better."

Lillian made a derisive sound that was very nearly a snort. "Rubbish. It may have been true for those who faced life in that manner before the war. The rest of us simply got on with it and did what needed doing, rather than bury ourselves in our grief." And she resumed her meal, a clear sign that she had nothing more to say.

Silence fell among them for a few minutes. Beside her, Robbie was discussing a soccer match in animated detail with his nephew, Jamie, while John Carmichael listened without saying much. Laura could hear snippets of talk from farther down the table, a horse show of some sort—one of the teenaged girls loved riding, apparently—the state of the early summer weather in Edinburgh, plans for a vacation in Brittany. Remington, head down, was toying absently with the food on his plate. But when she brushed her shoulder against his, a gesture of support, he turned warm blue eyes on her and smiled.

The introduction of the salad course provided him with an opening by which to re-start their conversation on a different footing. "Aunt Lillian," he said. "There's something I've been wondering."

She glanced at him. "My dear?"

"You said earlier that you first met me when I was a day old. Does that mean you knew my mother?"

It was the money question: the one he'd been dying to pose from the moment he met his aunt, Laura knew. Waiting for the answer, she registered out of the corner of her eye the fact that Robbie was listening, too. So was John Carmichael.

"A little. Not awfully well," said Lillian. "Why do you ask?"

"I was hoping you might be able to tell me about her."

Lillian sat back in her chair and regarded him. "I can try. But I only saw her three times in my life, you know. The day she married your father. The day after you were born. A few weeks after that."

"What was she like?"

"Pretty. Unexpectedly well-spoken. A devoted mother to you. And the most extraordinary blue eyes, as I recall. Yours are very like them." She looked at him thoughtfully again. "My dear, am I to infer from these questions that you don't remember her?"

"Not much. She died when I was two."

Robbie leaned towards Laura. "So he didn't have his dad _or _his mother?" he whispered. She shook her head. "Who brought him up, then?"

"His mother's family. Foster parents. He doesn't like to talk about it."

"I should say not. How rotten for him."

Turning back to Lillian, she found she'd missed part of the exchange. "…shocked me to discover she'd left my brother and returned to Ireland," Lillian was saying. "I assume she married again afterward?"

"I…don't think so. No one's ever told me so…"

"Then why is it that your last name is different from your father's?"

It wasn't a question he'd anticipated. For a moment he could only gaze at his aunt while he literally floundered for an answer. It wasn't the first time—often he set himself up for it by overestimating his ability to summarize a case for a client—but Laura had never before found it so excruciatingly painful to watch. She decided to jump in for him as he had done for her. "You took the name Steele before Daniel claimed you as his son, didn't you?" she asked him. "And had it so long that it didn't make sense to change?"

"That's it exactly." He threw her a look, fond and grateful. "It was given me by a woman who's loved me as much as my parents, in her way, and I've made it my own," he explained to his aunt. "Though Daniel did tell me, much later, that he'd intended when I was born to call me after his father. John Lloyd Chalmers the Second, I would have been, if my mother hadn't---well--"

"I see." Lillian's voice was dry. "And did he also tell you why he chose that particular name?"

"To honor my grandfather, whom he'd loved very much."

"But nothing about the tradition. I ought to have known."

"What tradition?" Remington's gaze traveled the circle of faces around him.

"It's what I meant to explain to you the other day," said Robbie, "but I'd got myself bogged down in others things, and forgot. It's not all that extraordinary, in fact you may find it silly, but we've clung to it all the same. There's been a John Chalmers at the head of the family for ever so many generations. The eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, and so on, all the way back to the beginning. It's our particular branch that's really the center of the family tree, you see."

"But Daniel--"

"—was _not_ our parents' eldest son," said Lillian. "We had a brother who died not long after Daniel was born. His name was John. Naturally, the trust passed instead to Daniel on our father's death, and so to you on Daniel's death, as his eldest son. Hence his choice of name for you." She caught the involuntary glance Remington directed at John Carmichael. "Sons from the female line are excluded. A remnant of the old inheritance laws. I should have thought the trust paperwork made that clear."

"I'm sure it would have, but I haven't seen it yet. We're to return to London on Friday for the final signatures."

"But that's great!" Robbie burst out, before anyone else could speak.

"It's more of a necessary inconvenience, actually," said Remington.

"Oh, not the paperwork, dear fellow. I'm sure that's a tremendous bore. I meant, that you'll be back again so soon! In fact, if gives me an idea. Arch--Kate--" this was directed towards the other end of the table "—what if we were to gather as many of the cousins together as we can and throw a party for Remington and Laura? A sort of family reunion and welcome to the family, all in one? Far easier to meet everyone at once, you know," he explained to the Steeles. "And a nice send-off as you head back to the States."

"I think it would be lovely," said Kate. "We'll host it, Rob, shall we?"

"Count us in," Archie said. "You'll need me. There won't be a decent cocktail made all night long if we leave it up to you." He winked at his brother.

"Mum?"

"I can't help but feel that it's unrealistic, as well as a trifle inconsiderate to everyone, expecting to put together a large party at such short notice. Though we'll be there, if you can manage it."

"Oh, bosh. They'll be glad to come. Jock?"

"Count on us, too."

"Then that's that." Robbie glanced around the table in satisfaction. "Do you know, we've quite forgotten our manners. Has everyone a drink in front of them? Polly--" he beckoned to one of the maids—"make sure everyone's glass is full." With that accomplished, he rose to his feet. "A toast. To our new cousin, Remington, and his lovely Laura." The rest of the family stood, too, turning to the Steeles. Welcome to the family—and many more years of having you among us!"

  

Dusk had fallen by the time they left Bonnymead for London. As soon as they exited the gates and were headed towards the motorway, Remington said, "Do you know what this reminds me of?"

Laura's cranial muscles had been tightening for the last hour with an incipient headache. She struggled resolutely to ignore it as she mulled his question over. "Let me guess. _David Copperfield_?"

For once, her attempt at the movie game—which she personally thought wasn't half bad—failed to evoke a reaction from him. "The case where I impersonated Reggie Whitewood. Remember? It started as a scam Daniel cooked up, with me posing as the long-lost son of the Duke of Rutherford, come to claim my inheritance, welcomed back by my family, some of whom eyed me askance. There was even a cousin named Archie."

"And I was your fiancé, the refined, ladylike Myrtle Groggins, and there were three attempts on your life within twenty-four hours. How could I forget? Although the Dalgleishes are far nicer than the Whitewoods. But there are some interesting parallels. Life imitates art, Mr. Steele?"

His only reply was a faint smile. In an effort to stave off the headache, Laura rested her head on the seat back and closed her eyes. No good: her temples were beginning to throb. She wished she had asked someone for an aspirin before they'd departed Bonnymead.

At the same time, there was something nagging her, something about the conversation at dinner. Something Remington had said? Something he hadn't said? Whatever it was hovered just at the edge of her memory; try as she might to call it up, it stubbornly eluded her. If only the damned headache weren't making coherent thought so difficult.

He said abruptly: "How did you find my aunt?"

"Mmm…caustic. Definitely some rough edges there." She glanced over at him. "You?"

"Hostile is what comes to mind. I've the feeling that she'd just as soon never have laid eyes on me."

"What makes you say that?

He took his time about answering. "No reason, really. Perhaps I was expecting her to dislike me because she didn't get on with Daniel."

"Or you expected to dislike her because Daniel did? She seemed to be on board with Robbie's idea for the family reunion."

"She could hardly object while you and I were sitting there, could she, eh?"

"I guess not."

He was shaking his head. "One bombshell after another. My grandmother and Daniel both Americans. The trust passed down from father to son for all those generations. Daniel an actor, for heaven's sake. I'm beginning to feel as if I've taken the lid off Pandora's box."

"That's exactly what Daniel said in Ireland, when he finally confessed you were his son."

"Is it?"

"Mm." By now the headache was so bad it was becoming painful even to talk, so she put her head back again.

Remington noticed it. "What's wrong? Laura?"

"Tension headache. I'm fine."

"Of course you are. Perfectly well." She could hear the affectionate irony in his drawl. "Do you have aspirin with you? We'll stop at a pub and get some water to wash it down. Where's your handbag--?"

"--Nope. No aspirin. I'll be okay. Just let me sit quiet for a while."

"Curl up over here and take your shoes off, at least."

"Remington."

"Yes?"

She spoke without opening her eyes. "I'm fine."

He subsided at last, to her relief. Not that his worry, and his obvious reluctance to be put off, didn't touch her. A lot. But the throbbing in her head was making her queasy, and all she wanted was not to move a muscle until the worst of the onslaught had passed. In a few minutes, maybe, it would be over.

The next thing she knew, she was gazing into full darkness, illuminated from the outside by the houselights they occasionally passed, and on the inside by the dash lights. Her head was resting against Remington's left arm; in her sleep she had cuddled up next to him, after all.

He spared a smiling glance downward at her from his concentration on the road. "Awake? Hm?"

"Where are we?"

"Half an hour to London." He removed his right hand from the wheel, touched its index finger to his lips, and then pressed it like a kiss on hers. "Feeling better?"

A shade experimentally, she turned her head, and winced as the motion set off a stab of pain followed by a wave of nausea. "No."

"Lie still, my love. I'll have you back to the hotel in no time."

For once she was content to do what he asked. The light wool of his sleeve was smooth beneath her cheek; now and then, she could catch a faint whiff of his cologne. Odd: all these years, his nearness had more often than not acted on her like a stimulus, heightening her senses, making her pulses race. Just now it was soothing, a comfort. She smiled to herself. It really wasn't as hard as she'd always imagined, putting herself into someone else's hands—as long as the hands belonged to him.

He hadn't told his aunt that Daniel's dying request was for Remington to change his name officially to John Chalmers the Second.

Her eyes flew open. Now where had that thought come from? For a moment she was stymied. Then she recollected that it was the question that had been nagging her before she'd fallen asleep, whether or not he had been completely forthcoming in his conversations with his aunt. As soon as she'd stopped cudgeling her brain, it had produced the answer.

But why hadn't he brought it up? There couldn't have been a more opportune time. For that matter, why hadn't they, the two of them, discussed it? She'd purposely tabled the subject right after their meeting with Alix Edwards, though it was uppermost of all the concerns she had in connection with his inheritance. Since then, they'd overflowed with talk about the other ones. The marvelous windfall from Daniel, and to what use they might put it. His amazement at his family history; his admiration for their attainments. His liking for his cousins and hopes to know them better. He'd even confided his modest dreams of cultivating the artistic talent he'd inherited, to take some refresher courses, to devote more than just an occasional weekend to it.

It must be deliberate, then, the omission, though she couldn't imagine why. A name of his own! The lack of it had set him to wandering the world most of his life in search for an anchor to take its place. But now that he had it at last, he seemed almost not to care. At least, he wasn't pursuing it with the spirit she would have expected from him.

Time to get to the bottom of it, she thought. 'Leave it to Linda to dig until she finds the dirt,' Daniel had once said of her with ill-concealed resentment. He'd had good reason, since she'd just stumbled on the secret that Remington was his son and was forcing him to admit it. This, though: of this, he would approve. They would've been on the same side if he were here. The persistence he'd mocked would be used, not to thwart his designs, but to further them, to accomplish what he hadn't. She would be the one to make sure his son found his way into the family with whom he belonged.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

They finally talked about it en route from Nice to Menton.

Laura had found no opportunity to broach the subject with him before their departure from London. He had treated her to a massage when they'd returned to the St. John Mayfair from Glouchestershire the night before, and it had relaxed her so much that they'd gone straight to bed afterwards. Unfortunately, that meant putting off a portion of their packing until morning. Between that and arranging for a bellman and taxi, tracking down their plane tickets, routing her dilatory husband out of bed and getting ready herself, there wasn't a moment to spare for serious discussion.

Remington had insisted on booking their means of transportation to Menton, shrouding his plans in the air of mystery he could still readily conjure forth from the old days. As soon as she laid eyes on his choice at l'Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur, she understood why. "_What_ is _this_?"

"Our car." He popped the trunk and began to load it with their suitcases. "A BMW M325i convertible in sea mist blue, to be precise. The only way to see the Riviera."

"You're not serious. It must be costing us a mint! You couldn't be satisfied with a peppy little Renault hatchback? A dependable Peugeot coupe?" She slipped through the passenger door he held open for her.

"Far too mundane." He narrowed his eyes in concentration as he backed out of the tight parking spot and maneuvered into heavy airport traffic. "Of course, it's not the Sunbeam Alpine two-seater or the MG TD roadster it should be," he went on when he had them safely underway. "But it'll serve the purpose."

"Sometimes I wonder what on earth I'm going to do with you, Mr. Steele."

"Laura, for the thousandth time: you really ought to learn to loosen up. Here we are, the perfect place for it, the Côte d'Azur, completely at leisure! Molten sunshine pouring over our shoulders…sparkling surf and golden sands, beckoning to us…the mountain road above, winding through breath-taking vistas…It's our chance to copy Mark and Joanna Wallace at last."

" 'And who might they be?' she asked with trepidation, wondering if she really wanted to know?"

"_Two for the Road._ Albert Finney, Audrey Hepburn, 1967. A married couple reflects on their years together while on a driving tour of France. Not altogether applicable, since we're looking forward, not back, at this stage of our lives. But may I say you make a lovely Audrey Hepburn?"

The compliment had the effect for which he'd probably hoped. Her irritation evaporated; she dimpled in response to his grin. Who wanted to hold out against him, anyway? Especially since he was well nigh irresistible in the white linen trousers he'd sported during the Mexican stage of their honeymoon, paired with a white tank top and a brightly patterned cotton shirt. They were clothes he didn't often wear in Los Angeles, not even at his most casual, and now she admired how they set off the burgeoning muscles of his shoulders and chest—the products of his clandestine workout regimen. It was an open secret between them that he'd begun some serious weight training not long after they'd closed the Vinnie Dowd case in the spring. Nettled by Heather LeBlanc's laughter at his expense? Dissatisfied by mental comparisons with Tony Petz? Who knew? These days he could lift her in his arms and carry her off to bed as if she weighed no more than a feather, a romantic feat he liked to show off as often as she would let him. His lean, boyish outline, sexy as it had been, was maturing into something more elementally masculine. And it called to the elementally feminine in her.

So she back leaned in her seat, sunglasses shielding her eyes, and watched him expertly navigate the city. It was easy to tell that he knew Nice as well as he did Dublin and London. "You've been here before, haven't you?"

There was a trace of an "aha!" in her voice, but he either didn't hear it or chose to overlook it. "The Autoroute's much faster, but I thought we'd travel the mountain road, the Corniche, instead. That way we'll avoid the congestion on the coastal road and still have the view of the sea. Sound okay?"

"I'll leave it in your capable hands."

"Spendid. There are things I want to show you along the way." He glanced at her. "Places I'd have taken you last time we were in France, actually."

"The last time we were in France…? That was Cannes, 1984, for the Stanford Alumni Glee Club concert."

He nodded his agreement.

"You mean…the Hapsburg Dagger? Your friends Henri and Joëlle, the Palermo Brothers, Freddie Smith, Inspector Vouvray?" She sat up a little straighter.

"Exactly."

"And you were going to take me sightseeing on the Riviera while we were here?"

"In a manner of speaking. I thought it was time to give you a little insight to the man I used to be."

She was having trouble digesting this, and shook her head as if to clear it. "When? This is the first I've ever heard of it."

"Yes, well…circumstances intervened, obviously. Later, when things finally calmed down, it seemed pointless to suggest it."

There was no need for him to say anything further. The circumstances to which he was referring were burned into her memory: his theft of the valuable artifact known as the Hapsburg dagger in order to save his friend, Henri; her own hopes of finally "turning the corner" with him, thwarted when she discovered Henri's daughter in his hotel room; their fierce quarrels the following day; her declaration that their partnership was over. She squirmed in discomfort as the emotional residue from those recollections washed over her.

"I had it all planned out," he went on. "As soon as I'd made sure Henri and Joëlle were safe and the Stanford concert was over, I'd have dispatched Mildred back to Los Angeles and carried you off for a few days by ourselves. It's one of the reasons I was so eager to come with you in the first place."

"To tell me the truth about yourself?"

"It was just a few weeks after the incident with—Anna." There was the most imperceptible of hesitations before he could say the other woman's name. "We—you and I—had come to an understanding of sorts about the future. I thought if I answered the questions you'd been asking me so long—some of them, the ones I could answer—it would prove that I had, indeed, changed. And that I was willing to work towards a real commitment." He smiled wryly. "I should've known it would blow up in my face."

Laura found herself unable to answer him immediately. The unexpected irony of his confession had taken her breath away. Unbeknownst to one another, they'd been working toward the same goal in Cannes all along! He was ready to offer some of the words she'd needed to hear; she'd been ready to demonstrate her feelings by making love to him. Who could tell how much sooner they might have been together, if she'd never opened her big mouth to insist on their agreeing not to mix business and pleasure, to segregate their professional and personal lives?

She said as much to him.

He drew his brows together in thought. "Perhaps. Then again, you could have believed me when I told you Joëlle was just a friend, and stuck to your original plan. I'll warrant the idea for our little agreement would never have crossed your mind."

"Aren't we re-writing history here? You didn't want me to stick to my plan. In fact, I distinctly remember you saying the next morning that you weren't interested."

"I never said I wasn't interested in us becoming lovers, only that I wanted to be involved in the decision. You could've convinced me at any point, if you'd cared to try. I'd have thought our kiss on Freddie Smith's yacht would've told you if anything could."

They were out of the city by now, and the road was climbing into the hills. It wasn't as free of other vehicles as she imagined it would be; in fact, it was pretty busy. It made her wonder what the seaside road, which he'd described as congested, was like in comparison.

They continued to ascend. On their left they could glimpse the Mediterranean, impossibly blue, edged with rows and rows of house terraced on steep, forested hillsides. On their right rose the sheer rock faces of the Alpes Maritimes. The road wound beside the mountains, sometimes in gentle curves, sometimes in knuckle-whitening hairpin turns. Though far from a timid driver herself, she was disconcerted at first when the drivers around them increased their speed rather than slackening it. Remington, keeping pace with them, appeared completely unfazed.

They hadn't traveled more than a handful of miles before he was pulling over at a scenic overlook—a _belvédère_, he'd said they were called. He led her to the waist-high stone wall, where the panorama of blue sea and sky, green hills, and buildings painted pink and cream, salmon and yellow, spread below them. She slid her arm around his waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. "You were right about the breath-taking vistas. Worth waiting for, Mr. Steele."

With his free hand he pointed out the towns strung along the coast, starting from the west. "Villefranche-sur-Mer. Beaulieu-sur-Mer. Cap Ferrat." This last was a peninsula shaped like a sickle with its upper blade curving towards the shore. "Had we made the trip I planned two years ago, we'd have visited all of them. Too time-consuming to do it today." He dropped his hand and stood, gazing out at the horizon. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Then he said, "I operated in and out of here for three years, give or take. Kept a flat in Villefranche-sur-Mer for the purpose. I was known then as Jean Murrell."

Shading her eyes, she tried to catch his expression, but he kept facing seaward. "A Frenchified version of the name of the character Humphrey Bogart played in--?"

"_Virginia City_."

"One of your passport names. The one you never use."

He gave a mirthless laugh that sounded nothing like his own. "Oh, I've used it. I assure you…I used it."

She didn't know how to respond, or if he even wanted her to.

"Cuillerier et fils, we called ourselves," he said. "_Courtiers de yachts_, yacht brokers, based in St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat. The ideal market for us, home to displaced royalty, the European aristocracy and international millionaires whose lives are devoted to grown-up play, who splash money about as if it was plentiful as the waters of the Mediterranean. Armand Lortie, Denis Bédard and me. Only there wasn't any Cuillerier _père_. And we weren't yacht brokers."

"Art thieves? Jewel thieves?"

"Smugglers. And, intermittently, con men."

"But I thought you worked with Henri, or whatever his name was then."

"I did. He taught me everything I knew. This was later."

He hadn't turned to register her reaction. Yet something in his posture, probably his absolute stillness, told her that he was waiting anxiously for it. She kept her voice matter-of-fact when she replied. "It must've been the perfect set-up for it. What kind of cargo?"

"Oh, any number of items. Take your choice. Counterfeit art and antiques. Relics from plundered tombs, like the temple figure that so horrified Leopold Majak in the Whit Sterling murder case. Black market objets d'art. Whatever was profitable at a given time."

The note of apprehension slipped out before she could forestall it. "Drugs?"

It drew his eyes down to her at last. "You know me better than that," he said gently. "No drugs; no guns. Nothing that could've hurt anyone, except in the pocketbook. And not even there so much. The chaps we were…deceiving…could always afford to take the hit."

It was a relief to hear it. She didn't realize how clearly it showed in her face. "Were you ever caught?"

"Laura. Have you forgotten who you're talking to? 'Suspected? Frequently. Questioned? Occasionally. Apprehended--?' "

" '--Never'," she finished with him. "So why'd you stop?"

"Difficult to say. Victims of our own success, I suppose. Armand had tucked away a sizable nest egg and wanted to be married; Denis developed a hankering for racing yachts and found a patron who'd back him."

"And you?"

"I was...setting my sights on new horizons."

She guessed silently that his 'new horizons' had probably had to do with Anna.

His eyes had remained fixed on her, but the look in them had changed to bemusement. "Don't you have something to say?"

"Not really, unless there's something particular you want to hear."

"No…nothing particular."

"Then let's get a move on. I'm starving." And she tightened her arm around him and steered him back to the car.

But in the act of opening her door for her, he halted. With his hands on her waist turned her towards him. "Laura…I've wanted to tell you for a long time. For years, I've wanted to tell you. Before Cannes, even."

"I know."

"It frightened me, though, the thought of shining a light into this part of my past. I was afraid if you knew what I was, you'd turn from me…and I'd lose you."

"And now I do know, and I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere. Was that so hard?"

"Hell, yes." His vehemence startled them both; after a beat, they broke into laughter.

"Answer me one question," he said when they had regained their composure. "You don't seem particularly shocked by the revelation. Or even disapproving. Why is that? Hm?"

She shrugged. "I believe honesty should be rewarded, not punished. Besides, didn't you say it earlier? 'The man I _used_ to be on the Riviera'. Emphasis on 'used to be'. I'm taking you at your word."

In Éze, instead of searching through crowds of tourists to find a restaurant, they stopped at a bustling _épicerie_. There Remington selected the elements of a picnic: cold roast chicken, bread, olives, peaches, a bottle of _vin rosé_. It took some time to battle their way back out of town, but at last they were negotiating a comparatively narrow mountain road that wound up and up. Just when the bumping and jolting seemed interminable, they reached a roadway similar to the one they had left at Éze, only this one, the Grande Corniche, was cut into the cliffs at an even higher altitude, with a more dizzying, disorienting drop over the side.

It had one thing in common with the Middle Corniche, however. "Damn," Remington said under his breath.

"What's the matter?"

"I'd forgotten how crowded this route can be in July. I imagined we'd have it virtually to ourselves. Wishful thinking on my part."

Wishful thinking it definitely was: the Corniche was thronged with cars traveling in the same direction as they were. It made for slow going, which Laura thought privately was a good thing, given the temptation its sharp curves might otherwise have been to daredevil drivers.

It also diminished her appreciation for the view, though it didn't seem to have affected her husband. "Put you in mind of anything?" he asked.

He wore an air of expectancy as he posed the question. She gazed around, puzzled. "Should it?"

"Look again."

She looked. Not quite bumper-to-bumper traffic, but close enough. Waves of heat shimmering off the pavement. Clouds of exhaust hanging just above them. The sunlight was glaring now, and she wondered if he would be willing to put up the top of the convertible to escape it. "Figueroa Street when the Raiders are playing at the Coliseum?" she suggested. "Pacific Coast Highway any Sunday in August?"

"If you're going to make fun, Mrs. Steele, perhaps we should abstain from romantic allusions of any kind and simply head for the Autoroute, eh?"

"All right, all right, I'm sorry. Tell me what I'm missing."

"It's the stretch of road that Grace Kelly and Cary Grant travel in that sequence in _To Catch a Thief_."

The pieces fell into place for her at last. "That's why the sea mist blue convertible!"

"And chicken as the main course for our picnic, and the stop up ahead in La Turbie. Yes. Indeed."

His expression was so sour that she couldn't help laughing at him; he glared back at her. She patted his hand. "Never mind, Mr. Steele. The drive's not over. Maybe La Turbie will be all you dreamed it would be."

But the lower town of La Turbie proved as crammed with holidaymakers as the Corniche had been, and they could find nowhere to park and enjoy a picnic in seclusion. Finally, in tacit admission of defeat, he wheeled in the nick of time into an open space in one of the downtown squares. "I suppose it's too much to ask, a bit of shade and somewhere to sit. But we may as well have a try."

Fortune was ready to smile upon them at last, in the form of an empty stone bench in a park a few blocks from the village center. Remington threw himself down before it, sprawling on his back. "Ah, relief, glorious relief!" He squinted upwards at the branches of the tall cypresses that cast their shadows over their chosen spot. "Laura, I'm beginning to realize that July isn't the optimal time of year for traveling the Riviera by convertible."

"Astute observation, Mr. Steele. Here." She handed him a plastic cup of wine.

He sat up to take a sip. "Excellent vintage. The container leaves a little something to be desired."

"Oh, I don't know. The plastic lends it a certain vagabond charm."

"To vagabond charm, then." And he touched the rim of his cup to hers.

They spread out the rest of the lunch. The park, crowded though it was with tourists and townspeople alike, was friendly and sheltering, the town unpretentious and cheerful. It was nice to relax there without the slightest inclination towards sightseeing themselves and contemplate its narrow cobbled streets and pastel houses. The food was good, too; it didn't come as any surprise that they finished every crumb.

Afterward they lingered on in a deliberate laziness that was a direct contrast to the frenetic pace of their London activities. At length Remington flopped onto his back again, this time with his head in her lap. The twinkle in his eyes signaled to her that he'd thoroughly recovered his good spirits. "Well, here's one success come out of my effort to recreate _To Catch a Thief_. You make as delightful a Frances Stevens as you do a Joanna Wallace."

She couldn't resist the dark, silky hair so close under her hand, and began to stroke it. "I've had practice, remember?"

"I certainly do, much as I'd like to forget part of it. You, rolling around with Freddie Smith on his bed, in the throes of convincingly simulated lust? It's enough to keep a man who loves you awake at night. As for the rest…you were witty, flirtatious, scintillating, sexy…an excellent foil for my John Robie."

"John Robie." She repeated it a second time, turning it over on her tongue. "Did you ever use it as one of your aliases before Cannes?"

"From time to time. When it was inconvenient to be Jean Murrell."

"Jean Murrell. John Robie. John Case." Inspiration struck: she had the opening she'd been waiting for since the night before. "John Chalmers the Second?"

"You're suggesting I use my grandfather's name as an alias?"

"I'm wondering why we haven't talked about Daniel's last request."

"Nothing to talk about. I have a name, one I'm very attached to. If Daniel were here, I'd tell him so."

"Combination of a typewriter and a football team?"

"The persona my wife created to bring her dream to fruition, which she's done, beautifully."

"That was before we knew you had a name of your own."

"Laura…." He rolled off her lap and sat up. "You're not serious about this."

"Maybe. We should at least discuss it."

"By all means, let's discuss it." Shifting position again, he stretched out on his side next to her with his head propped on one hand. "Say you're able to bring me round to your view, hypothetically speaking. Imagine we cross the hurdles, huge as they are, resolve them. Could you really get used to calling me John, day in, day out?"

"I don't see why not, hypothetically speaking."

"Your father's name?"

She spread her hands wide. "What's the difference? Since when have you ever known me to be so sensitive? Besides…if it was a problem, the name John, I would've had to cut a good part of my family out of my life." At his questioning look, she added, "You met them. Our reception, remember? My uncles, John Garland Junior and John Gale. My three cousins. Not to mention that my grandfather's name was John Garland."

"And you're proposing to muck up the waters even more by adding another John to the family."

"No, I'm proposing that you might want to take your rightful place as the head of the Chalmers family and carry on its tradition."

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura. The family have gotten along admirably for forty years without me or the tradition. No doubt they'll continue to do so."

"Can you get along without them?"

"Can we get along without Remington Steele?"

It was a consideration that hadn't occurred to her. It put her totally out of her stride and left her gazing at him in silence.

"The agency, my love. Can you honestly conceive of a way we could announce to the world, look, everyone, the man you've known all these years as Remington Steele won't be called by that name any longer, he's now John Chalmers, but you can trust him with your valuables and your confidential affairs just as you always have. Where would our credibility be then? Eh? It surprises me that you haven't thought it through."

He was right. Once upon a time, the agency would have been her first concern—maybe her only one. A shift of tectonic proportions had taken place in her priorities while she wasn't paying attention. Incredible that she hadn't realized it until now.

His question wasn't rhetorical; he was waiting for an answer. "Out the window," she said reluctantly.

"Out the window. Exactly." He gave her a piercing look, one that seemed to see deep within her. "You were thinking of Daniel, weren't you? The gratitude you never got a chance to express. Working to set things right, for him and for me."

"You've got to admit, if he hadn't made the choices he did, your life would've been far different."

"But he did. And things are as they are. No sense in trying to re-make them twenty years after the fact. Leave well enough alone, Laura." He consulted his watch. "Good Lord. If we keep this up, we won't make it to Menton until after dark. Come along, Mrs. Steele."

He was telling her that the topic was off limits, as clearly as if he'd said it aloud. Instinct told her that continuing to push him, insisting that they pursue it, would only lead to a quarrel. And this wouldn't be one of their amusing, quotidian duels of wits, either, but far-reaching and possibly ugly. Why spoil the golden afternoon when she really didn't have to?

All the same, as they headed back to the car, she made herself a promise. They would re-visit the subject and resolve it to her satisfaction. And they would do it soon.

  

Daniel's home in Menton, the Villa Montreuil, was perched halfway up a hill a little north of the harbor, off the rue Ferdinand Bac. Because the ascent was too steep to admit of a driveway, Remington had to park the BMW in a little cul-de-sac at its base; the only access to the house was by means of a pedestrian staircase carved right into the hillside. Eager to get the lay of the land first, the Steeles left their suitcases in the car for later retrieval and headed up.

The villa was as modest as Alix Edwards' description had led them to believe. It stood one story high, built of pink-beige stucco, with a balcony overlooking the harbor on its south side. In the rear they were surprised to discover a stone-flagged patio with an outdoor bar and a swimming pool, sheltered on the north and east by stone walls, open to the hillside on the west. Inside, there were three bedrooms and a bath, as well as one large main room that served as kitchen, dining and living area.

This last was airy and inviting, thanks to the pale lemon wash on its plaster walls, its tile floor and high, beamed ceiling. Not even the light slanting in through the wall of glass that led to the balcony could diminish its coolness. The plump sofas and chairs were upholstered in white, and the furniture and kitchen fittings were painted white, too. The walls were hung with framed landscapes, mostly depicting sea views; an old-fashioned wrought-iron chandelier hung suspended from the central beam. All was comfortably appointed and superbly kept.

Yet it felt as impersonal as any generic vacation hideaway they might have chosen sight unseen through a travel agent. They found nothing that could have told them that Daniel had lived here if they hadn't already known it. There wasn't a single personal memento, not a photograph, not a card or letter, not a book or magazine. It was as wiped clean of his personality as if he'd never spent a minute in it.

The rest of the house was the same. Armoires were empty save for household linens. The few toiletries in the bathroom—soap, mouthwash, toothpaste--could have belonged to any casual visitor. And, in the bedroom that had probably been Daniel's, bureau drawers lined with fresh paper held nothing but lavender sachets.

After closing the last one, Remington stood with his head bowed for a moment. Then he turned slowly in place, taking in the bare, cream-washed walls, the shining oak floor, the bed with its feather mattress and clean cotton duvet. "Well, at least we can say one thing for him. He was consistent to the last."

Laura's initial instinct was to go to him and wrap her arms around him. But when she caught sight of his face, shuttered and bleak, she stayed where she was. "How do you mean?"

"No signposts leading to his past."

"The mark of a professional con man, isn't that how you always put it?"

Without answering her, he swung abruptly on his heel and threw himself from the room.

It was a while before he re-appeared. When he did, he had both their suitcases and a man and woman in tow. The latter turned out to be the couple who had looked after Daniel and the villa while Daniel was alive, Gilbert and Madeleine Trottier, and whom he had engaged to stay on as caretakers after his death.

Gilbert Trottier was a jaunty little rooster of a man, with small, snapping black eyes, a brush of wiry gray hair and an effervescent smile. Though rapid and excellent, his English was so heavily accented that he might as well have been speaking French. "We 'ad the telegram from Mademoiselle Edwards, advising that you would arrive today," he said. The rasp in his voice bespoke a lifetime of Gauloises. "So we 'ave prepared, as you can see. Of course you must tell us just what you would like to eat for the rest of your stay, and we will do the marketing just as we did for your father, and the laundry as well. For tonight, my wife, she 'as only to cook the entrée, and then she will serve dinner in…hm…no more than 'alf an hour."

He was as good as his word. Dinner was served not long afterward by Madeleine—unsmiling, plump and large-boned, speaking French with a guttural foreign accent and English not at all. She withdrew at once to the kitchen to give them their privacy and began unobtrusively to clean up.

Possible defects of temperament aside, she was a good cook, and the meal was one of the best Laura could remember. But Remington remained subdued throughout. He seemed barely to notice what he was eating and drinking, a definite sign that something was wrong. As for conversation, he left that up to her, not always hearing her, replying in monosyllables when he did.

When they were finished, she picked up her wineglass and rose. "Care to join me on the terrace, Mr. Steele?"

He followed her without comment. Outside, the purple-blue Mediterranean night was falling; a warm breeze, full of spicy aromas she couldn't identify, blew. Below them the harbor was a quiet mirror reflecting the string of streetlamps that edged the coastal road.

They settled close to each other on cushioned chairs. Various clichés about simultaneous physical proximity and emotional distance were running through her head, but she didn't let them prevent her from taking his hand. "Hey. You were hoping Daniel left something here for you, weren't you?"

He stiffened a little. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I know disappointment when I see it."

"Perhaps I was, then."

"A letter?"

He made a non-committal gesture.

"Remington."

"Anything that would've filled in the gaps. Even his personal belongings might've given us a clue. Instead…cleaned out completely. As though I were a stranger he had to hide from."

Experience had taught her there was likely more to come, so she waited when he fell silent.

She was right. He picked up the thread a moment or two later. "I thought of him as my best friend. Even when we didn't see each other for months, I thought of him that way. The best friend I had in the world, I would've called him, apart from you. And now…I'm not sure I ever really knew who he was. He certainly didn't trust me enough to show me."

"He was as honest as he knew how to be, don't you think?"

"Was he? Was he, Laura? He lived here over two years, yet I've never once been to visit. He was told he was sick in '83 and kept it to himself. And rather than leaving answers behind when he died—why, for instance, he chose to chuck an entirely respectable life to become a con man---he hires someone to tell me pretty stories about our relatives' escapades in the last century. You call that honesty?"

"I call it frightened."

"And I call it deplorable."

"Maybe he thought he'd have a chance to tell you face to face. He couldn't very well talk about his shady deeds on videotape, much less to Alix."

"Yes, well, now we'll never know, will we?" He pulled his hand from hers.

Not to be daunted, she got up and moved over into his lap. Though his expression maintained its stoniness, he shifted to make sure she was comfortable and held her. "I know it's hard right now to excuse him," she said. "Just don't lose sight of how much he loved you. He showed it again when he asked you to take his father's name, the man he admired more than anyone he'd ever known."

"To coin a phrase, much too little, decades too late."

"You feel like that now. Okay, it's natural. But in a week or two--"

"Two weeks, six months, five years, what difference does it make? Where was he twenty years ago, when I needed it, eh? Why now, when it's bloody useless to me--?"

"Don't say that. It's not useless, you just need time to--"

"Laura. Enough."

His voice was very low. Its tone was one she had come to know in Ireland: grief, controlled but deep. It was the tone in which he had talked about Daniel in the first days after his father's death. Almost without thinking, she reacted to it exactly as she had then, taking his head in her hands and drawing it down to her breast.

Immediately he gathered her close. He didn't make a sound, but she could feel his breathing become uneven and his chest heave with pent emotion. Fumbling for words of understanding, longing to soothe his pain, she could only whisper over and over, "I'm sorry." Even that began to seem inadequate, so she simply pressed her cheek to the top of his head and waited for the storm to pass.

When at last he was calm again, she took his face between her hands again and raised it to hers, feeling the dampness of tear tracks on his cheeks. His lashes were wet, too, but the awful bleak look was gone.

She kissed his forehead and then his mouth. "I'm sorry."

He glanced off in that shame-faced way he had and brushed a hand across his eyes. "I know you are."

"More than anything I want it to be all right for you, but here I am making it worse."

Astonishment was written on his features as he turned back to her. "Worse? Good God, Laura. You're the only reason it's been bearable. I could never have made this trip, if you weren't with me. I probably would've turned tail and run the moment Alix got out the photo album."

"There you go, selling yourself short again."

"There _you_ go, believing the best of me, despite evidence to the contrary."

"Loyalty and constancy, remember? The reason we picked sapphires for our wedding rings." She kissed him again. "Come to bed."

She knew she wouldn't have to say it twice. And she knew, even before he slid his arm beneath her knees and tensed his muscles for the effort, that he was going to pick her up. On an ordinary night she would have teased him about it, but now she hadn't the slightest inclination. Instead she put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder, for once willing to show him how much she really did enjoy the ride.

Inside they found that Madeleine Trottier had long since departed, leaving the kitchen in perfect order behind her. "The jury's still out, considering we haven't tasted her _canard au vin rouge_," remarked Remington. "But we may have to kidnap that woman and bring her back to Los Angeles with us."

"I didn't think you were paying attention to your food tonight."

"Not pay attention to _coquilles St. Jacques à la Provençale _and _tarte aux pêches_? Laura, who do you take me for?"

"You're right. I don't know what came over me."

He flicked off the chandelier and by the hallway light carried her towards the room Gilbert Trottier had confirmed was Daniel's—the same room Remington had fled earlier. But at the doorway, they froze, gripped by a sudden realization. They met each other's eyes in shared dismay. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she whispered.

"Abigail?" he whispered back.

"Daniel? Together?"

Entirely without planning to, they grimaced at the same time. "On second thought, Mrs. Steele," he said, "I believe we'll be more comfortable in here." And he bore her off in the opposite direction, to the bedroom at the other end of the hall.

Moonlight poured in through the window, rendering the bedside lamp unnecessary. It was so bright that they could see other plainly when he set her down on the high white bed. It also showed her that while his face had softened, there persisted in his eyes the shadow of pain. Not even the transition into their customary easy banter was enough to banish it.

But he lay down by her side and reached for her anyway. "See, Laura? Your perseverance paid off. That night in Cannes was only a postponement. At last…we're about to make love on the Riviera."

She moved closer so that their lips were mere centimeters apart. "Satisfied our decision-making process was democratic this time?" She punctuated every other word with a light kiss.

"Perfectly democratic, I'd say." His hands, in the full extent of their wonderful, sensuous expertise, began to roam over her body.

"Your desires haven't been ignored? Imposed upon? Taken for granted?"

She was slowly ramping up the intensity of her kisses; he had to catch his breath in order to speak. "On the contrary. At the moment they're being gratified beyond my wildest imaginings."

"Fully involved as you can possibly be?"

"Mmm. I believe you already know the answer to that."

Smiling, she pressed herself firmly against him. "Yes, Mr. Steele. I believe I do."

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" asked Laura.

"I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise," Remington replied. But he stayed where he was, obviously hesitating.

They were sitting on a low stone balustrade that edged one of the fountains behind the Monte Carlo Casino. The ubiquitous crowds of Riviera tourists were all around them; in a way the Steeles were part of them. They were just about to set off on a jaunt through the Place du Casino and the surrounding squares so Laura could view their world-famous landmarks, the Hotel de Paris, the Hotel Hermitage, the casino itself, as well as the opera and ballet theaters, the discos and nightclubs. There was more to it than an urge to sightsee, however; this was the setting for another chapter of his past, another he was ready to share with her.

He'd proposed the visit over breakfast that morning. "I want to make an appointment with the realtor so we can put this place on the market, and run you over to Monte Carlo and Roquebrune-Cap-Martin afterward. Unless you have an objection. Or something else in mind to do."

She'd looked at him thoughtfully before she replied. "Were they destinations on the itinerary you planned for us two years ago?"

"The most important of them all."

"In that case, maybe I ought to leave the decision up to you."

"Words I never dreamed would pass your lips. Wait til I tell Mildred."

"Well, yesterday-last night-wasn't so easy for you. Sure you're ready for another round of self-revelation?"

"No, I'm not. But I'm more afraid of leaving it unsaid. And it's far easier to tell you here, where I can show you how things were. If I don't do it now, I may never do it at all."

Stretching across the table, she'd taken his hand. "Then show me, Remington."

Before leaving town, they'd made a quick stop in the modern quarter at the office of the realtor who'd brokered Daniel's purchase of the villa. Madame Beaubien wasn't in, her assistant reported, but she could come up to the rue Ferdinand Bac the following morning, if Monsieur and Madame Steele were available. With a feeling of relief—one important item crossed off their to-do list—they had headed westward on the Middle Corniche for Monaco.

The ease with which they were able to cross the border from France had surprised Laura; it was almost as uncomplicated as driving from one state to another back home, she thought. She'd wondered a little at Remington's non-reaction until she remembered that he had done this for years. To Monaco and back, to Italy and back, maybe more than once a day. It had offered a new perspective on the reason he'd needed at least two of the passports he was carrying when she met him.

That recollection of him had stayed with her. Maybe that was the reason why, after they'd parked the BMW and headed towards the Place du Casino, she'd become aware of a difference in him. Hard to lay a finger on it, or put a name to it. But he didn't seem quite the Remington he'd been lately in Los Angeles, or even England or Ireland. Rarely anything but graceful, he'd moved with his usual long-legged stride, hands shoved carelessly in his pockets, just as she'd watched him do thousands of times. Only today it wasn't as much as a saunter as it was...a prowl. In an instant of crystal clarity, she'd wondered if she were gazing not at her husband, nor her Mr. Steele, but the smuggler Jean Murrell, a man who'd chosen to earn his living on the dark side of the law. An associate, she remembered him saying, of pickpockets and con men. A gentleman thief. A criminal.

The fancy was a little disturbing. "It's not dangerous for you to be here, is it?" she'd asked him suddenly.

He'd shot her a sardonic downward glance. "Certainly not. Why do you ask? Expecting the Monagasque version of Inspector Rios to appear from nowhere and haul me off to jail, are we?"

"Or the Monagasque version of the Palermo brothers to pull a gun on you."

"It always amazes me, Laura, how grossly you overestimate the number of enemies I made before I knew you. Especially since there have been more attempts on my life in five years as Remington Steele than in the previous twenty-eight combined."

His tone, droll and dry, had snapped her back to reality. What had she been thinking? They'd exorcised those demons ages ago. He was no more Jean Murrell than he was the impostor who'd first gotten under her skin five years ago despite his flawed ethical code and his insouciant disregard for the law. This was the man who'd reformed out of love for her. Of course he was. Who else could he be?

Now, waiting for a sign that he was ready to start their tour, she put a hand on his knee. "It really is all right, you know. There's nothing you can tell me that'll shock me into changing how I feel. I've known since the beginning that there were dark places in your past. It didn't stop me from marrying you."

"I know. That's what makes it so bloody difficult." He picked up her hand and held it to his cheek. Then, all at once brisk and no-nonsense, he got to his feet. "Come along."

They'd worn clothes appropriate for the casino—he a jacket and tie, she a dress—and it was their first stop. There he conducted her up the marble steps and through the main entrance into the lobby, where he stood aside so that she could take it all in. It was such a magnificent space that not even the throngs of gamblers could diminish the grandeur of its proportions or its opulent ornamentation. Head back, she contemplated the high vaulted ceiling, hung with glittering chandeliers, and worked down the walls with their bas-reliefs to the marble floor. "Beautiful." She smiled at him. "All of a sudden I feel a long way from Century City Plaza."

"We are a long way from Century City. Come on."

They wandered where they could, peering into the various game rooms without advancing farther inside. As they did, she couldn't help but observe his familiarity with every inch of it. It wasn't only that he knew the layout, but that he was perfectly comfortable with the atmosphere of wealth and excess, the air of privilege worn by its patrons. She'd had few chances to view him among the true elite of society—the Earl of Claridge's wedding reception came to mind—and the fact that he fit in so effortlessly was like a small shock. With it came again the disorienting sensation that maybe she really didn't know him as well as she thought, after all.

This time the impression continued to dog her, intensified by how at home he was in the boîtes, caberets and discos where the 'beautiful people' partied. Even when they didn't venture inside, he was brimming with anecdotes about them. On the women he'd been squiring around to those places, she was determined not to speculate too long. Daughters of well-heeled dukes and marquises? Nouveau riche heiresses? Displaced royalty? Who had they been?

He seemed to be skirting the subject as well. So far he'd limited himself to chit-chat, comments on what they were seeing, amusing inconsequentialities. There was nothing personal or revealing in anything he said; for the life of her, she couldn't understand why he'd been so nervous earlier. She did her best to hide her impatience, almost wishing he'd get to the point, if there was one.

She was just about to say so when he halted at the Hotel Hermitage. "Let's take a break from the heat for a bit. The reception area is something to see."

Inside she dutifully spent a few minutes admiring another display of marble, gilt and carved plaster. "Pretty." She slanted a quizzical look up at him. "I'm cooled off just fine. Anything else you want to look at? If not, I'm ready if you are-" And she began to move towards the exit.

"Laura, wait." His hand closed around her arm. "There's another reason I wanted to come…This is where I met Anna."

Finally: the admission he'd been working up to. She was glad the suspense was over. "How did you meet?"

"An Austrian banker who used to spend winters here. Gregor von Knauss. It was near Christmas…he gave a ball meant to be the social event of the decade. Anna was there, apparently unattached. We…flirted." He paused, remembering. "I didn't find out til later that she'd been sleeping with von Knauss for some time."

"You told me she was married to Raymond Marleau when you met her."

"She was. But given his willingness to share her with Walter Patton two years ago, I imagine he had the same lack of scruples when it came to von Knauss. Or, more likely, she did." He stirred restlessly. "You were right. We should go."

Out on the street again, she asked, "How did it come about, your being invited to von Knauss' ball? You couldn't have moved in the same circles as him."

"Of course not. I was planning a jewel heist, and it was a chance to view the ones I was after close up, if I could. Fortunately for me, von Knauss wasn't the sort to check invitations at the door, and one more for dinner didn't make too much difference among four hundred."

"And you were—? Let me guess. John Robie?"

"Paul Fabrini."

Despite the gravity of the conversation, she couldn't suppress a smile as she thought back to the night she and Murphy had discovered his passports. "I've wouldn't have thought you could pass as a Fabrini."

"You'd be surprised how much the addition of a mustache and beard and colored contact lenses can do."

"So that's why you gave up smuggling? You'd taken up jewel robbery?"

"Not exactly. There wasn't such a-" here he paused, groping for words—"clean line drawn between the two at first. It all depended on which celebrity or dignitary was staying on the coast, where and how long, and how good an access to them I could manage. It was simple enough to switch between Murrell and Fabrini; it only needed avoiding certain places and people, according to who I was. And I'd already developed a talent for that."

"And where did Anna fit in?"

"An impulse. I gave in to it and asked her to dance."

"I think I can guess. "The Way You Look Tonight" was playing? And it became your song. Yours and hers."

"It's how I thought of it. Who knows what she thought."

Up to that point he'd been speaking with deliberate, ironic detachment, but his final words were tinged with bitterness. It was an echo from the night at Club Ten in Los Angeles, the first and last time she'd been face to face with the other woman, when Anna's plan to use Remington and Marleau to destroy one another had backfired and Remington had finally understood what she was. "Can I ask you something?" she said softly.

"You can ask me anything." Neither of them noticed how much out of character his reply was.

"Did you tell her how you made your living?"

"Eventually. She said it didn't matter. Jean Murrell, Paul Fabrini, she loved me just the same. She would come to me in Roquebrune, the room I had on the rue Souta Riba…It was the only place we could be together. And she wanted me. Laura, can you understand what I'm telling you? She'd been the lover of a wealthy, powerful man. But it was me she preferred."

She squeezed the arm she was holding. "I do understand."

They had arrived back at the BMW; he handed her in and closed the door behind her. A small courtesy, one that was second nature to him, but with more than its usual significance. No matter how far part of him had withdrawn into the past, his heart was still with her in the present, unlike the last time Anna had surfaced between them. It was amazing, the comfort she derived from it.

He had made a reservation for the cocktail hour at the poolside restaurant at the Monte Carlo-Beach Hotel in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, and it took them a half hour's drive by the coastal Corniche to reach it. Situated on the waterfront, it exuded the kind of Art Deco elegance he admired, and she had no doubt that it was another old haunt of his.

"There's one thing you left out," she said after they'd been shown to their table and were seated across from one another, menus in hand. "You said that the night Anna died-or let you think she did-you were running away together. What were you running from?"

"I didn't leave it out. I wanted to tell you about it here. And it was 'who', not 'what'."

"Who, then?"

"If I asked you to try and guess-" A waiter was approaching their table, and Remington broke off. "May I?" he asked her. At her nod, he relayed their order. "Chartreuse for me, a Dubonnet Cassis for my wife. Thank you." He leaned back in his chair, his eyes lingering on her in a long, caressing glance. "In case I've forgotten to tell you, you look exceptionally lovely this evening."

"You have forgotten, but I'll forgive you. If I were to try and guess who you were running from-"

"—Who would you pick?"

"It couldn't be Marleau, because you didn't know about him until you saw the newspaper report that Anna had drowned. Von Knauss?"

He nodded. "Oh, she was very subtle about it. I'll grant her that. It wasn't that he was threatening to harm her. She hadn't advanced yet to that stage of the game. No, he was an obstacle between us, and we would need to cover our tracks because otherwise he'd keep looking for her and we'd never have any peace from him. That meant false identities, passports…By then she knew I was just the man to pull it off. Not only the paperwork, but shedding my current self and putting on a new one, made to order, just for her."

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Laura's attention was captured by the distinctive bottle in which Remington's selection arrived, as well as the green liqueur he poured from it. In no respect did it resemble his usual Moscow Mule, iced, in a pewter mug. "What's that?"

"Chartreuse." He held out his glass. "Have a sip."

She wrinkled her nose at the dense, pungent-sweet combination of flavors on her tongue. "A little on the strong side."

"It's supposed to be served as an after dinner drink, but I've always favored it on the rocks. Try yours."

She did, and found he'd chosen wisely. Why wouldn't he? He knew her taste. Nonetheless, a return of that weird sense of dislocation was assailing her. She could've sworn that the man before her wasn't Remington at all, but a stranger, a Frenchman in her husband's clothing. His very posture seemed altered in every detail, from his hold on his glass to the angle of his head when he tilted it to drink. All he needed to complete the transformation was a Gauloise or Gitane smoldering between thumb and forefinger. She could almost see the smoke rising from it as it was.

She had to blink, both to bring him back into proper focus and recall herself to the matter at hand. "So you manufactured a new name and papers for you both. And I'll bet you put together a travel itinerary that was a masterpiece of evasion to get you out of town."

"It was rather ingenious, if I say so myself."

Her brain had been steadily accumulating the facts, and now the unavoidable conclusion was staring her in the face. "That's how she was able to disappear after the faked drowning," she said slowly. "You'd already plotted the escape route. All she had to do was take it."

He gazed back at her in silent assent.

"So she was using you from the start, against Von Knauss, against Marleau."

"As you so astutely pointed out that afternoon at the agency. God, I resented you for it."

"Not surprising, since I was the bearer of bad news."

"No, there was more to it than that. I thought you'd told me out of spite, you see. Jealousy."

"That's not so surprising, either."

"It was because I didn't understand. I couldn't about Von Knauss, anyway, until she turned up alive. Even when she shot Marleau, I didn't connect the two." He smiled grimly. "I suppose it was staring down the muzzle of her gun myself that finally did the trick."

Their eyes locked. The restaurant around them receded into the background; they were again at Club 10, where a beautiful woman, one with cold, dead eyes, stepped callously over the body of her victim and drew a .45 out of the pocket in which she'd concealed it; where Remington stood rooted in momentary shock as the mask she'd worn slipped off for good; where Laura leaped instinctively from her hiding place to throw off Anna's aim, so that the bullet intended for him lodged in the ceiling instead.

He broke the spell by taking another swallow of his drink. "It's rather a horrible jolt, discovering you've been nothing but an expedient to someone you've loved."

"I wish I'd known the whole story," she said. "I wish you'd told me."

"I tried. Remember? I came to the loft the next evening with a bottle of wine from Caroline. But every time I started to bring it up, you changed the subject. Why was that, Laura?"

"It probably seemed better to let it lie. It was over. You were safe."

"You were afraid to hear what I had to say."

She raised her eyebrows. "An interesting theory."

"Not theory. Fact. It's how you've always been when it comes to my past. Drawing the line at a certain point, pushing me only so far and no farther. Afraid to find out I've been a worse character than you suspected? Naturally. But afraid, as well, that you might hear too much about exotic places I'd lived…other women I've known. Because deep down you've never believed that the life you offered me as Remington Steele could compete."

"I wasn't aware it was a contest." She was bristling at the implied criticism.

"Nor is it. Not to me, not since the moment I laid eyes on you. But in your head it is. Admit it, Laura. You've always suspected that if my past and present were weighed in the balance, the past would hold the greater attraction for me."

"Can you blame me? Every time I turned around, someone was popping up from the old days, hell bent on enticing you to go back. And you weren't exactly immune to their persuasions."

"Of course I was," he said sharply. "I never left you voluntarily, and the times I did leave, it wasn't from discontent. Aren't we clear on at least that much?"

"You most certainly did leave voluntarily. All Anna had to do was crook her finger at you and wham! You were gone, in heart if not in body. I remember if you don't."

"Not altogether true, but never mind. The point is, I came to the loft fully prepared to tell you about Anna and me-the reasons why we couldn't have picked up where we left off-how they all had to do with you. But you wouldn't give me a hearing."

"Oh, please. What was it you said yesterday about Cannes? Something about how I could've convinced you at any point, if I'd only tried hard enough?"

Exasperated, he threw himself back in his chair. "Then let me spell it out for you now. I never knew I wanted what I have with you until you'd given it to me. Once I had it, it was worth everything it cost me to keep it. And there've been times when it's cost me quite a lot."

"Penthouse apartment, unlimited expense account, fancy car, generous dress allowance," she said, deliberately flippant.

The shot hit home. For the first time, anger flared in his eyes. "A name and an identity," he said from between his teeth. "People who taught me an honorable line of work. Someone who loved me for who I was, not what I could do for her. Permanency."

A pause while they stared at one another, teetering on the brink of a full-blown argument, neither willing yet to go the limit. Laura dropped her gaze and reached out to touch his hand. "I'm sorry. But you make it sound like I've been jumping to unwarranted conclusions about your past all by myself. Like you never provoked me into it. Boasting about your exploits. Rubbing it in, how much freer you were before you came to Los Angeles."

"Or perhaps exaggerating the good to hide how bad the bad actually was, eh?" He ran the other hand over his face and back through his hair. "Ah, damn. Nothing I've said came out how I meant it to."

"Mine hasn't, either." She smiled ruefully. "The truth isn't always so easy to share, is it, ?"

"No. It isn't." He held up a finger, signaling the waiter for the check.

It was while they were waiting on the front steps for the valet to retrieve the car that she recollected a comment he had made earlier. "Why specifically did you want to be here when you told me about the night you and she ran away?"

"Can't you guess?" Wordless, she shook her head. "It's where I waited for her. From seven in the evening until three in the morning, I waited, until it was downright absurd to wait any longer."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be a fitting response to that.

"It's all right," he added as they descended towards the BMW. "I thought bringing you here would exorcise the memory. It has, you know." He flashed a fleeting grin. "Despite our quarrel. Or because of it. I'm not sure which."

"Maybe a little of both?" she suggested.

He shifted into gear and headed away from the hotel, back to the coastal road. "Here's one thing I'm glad of, anyway. You never call me 'darling'."

"Except when we're under cover as a married couple. That probably doesn't count." She gazed at him. "It's what _she_ called you, isn't it."

"An endearment she didn't mean, any more than she meant…anything else. I find your 'Mr. Steele' infinitely more alluring."

After dinner at a charming little inn above Cap-Martin, they headed back to Menton. The day had been a long one; it was good to get out of their dress clothes, to unwind by the pool with a glass of wine, to give the magic of the Mediterranean evening a chance to soothe their jagged tempers. At another time, the atmosphere might have afforded a wonderful segue into romance, Laura thought.

But not tonight. Antagonism from their argument still simmered between them, hard as they had tried to defuse it. It left Remington nearly as quiet as he'd been last night. As for her, playing over and over in her mind was a jumble of scenes from earlier in the day.

She couldn't seem to shake them. Monte Carlo's seductive hedonism. Memories of the moment when Anna had come perilously close to murdering him in cold blood. The utter vileness that permeated every aspect of his history with the other woman. His unembellished statement, more affecting than a flowery speech would have been, of the contrast he'd found in Los Angeles to his life on the Riviera. The disjointed interludes when she felt her companion was Jean Murrell or Paul Fabrini.

These last were the ones that bothered her the most. It was unsettling, the speed with which they'd materialized, those alter egos from his past. Back in his old surroundings fewer than forty-eight hours, and the old mannerisms were already asserting themselves, fitting him like a favorite suit he'd only temporarily laid aside.

Were old attitudes and emotions far behind?

How much of him was really Remington Steele? How far beneath the skin did Remington Steele go? That he _wanted_ to be Steele, she had no doubt. But how much control did he have over that choice? Could the Steele name last him any longer than the others had? More important, could it really provide the permanence and stability he said it did? Or was that only an illusion?

It was a sobering question, one she shrank at first from facing. Then she made herself examine it head on. Granted, the turmoil that he'd stirred up in his struggle to extricate himself from the Immigration mess had abated, the positive outcome—she hated to put in those terms, but there it was—of Glady's Lynch's murder. And the weeks since their second wedding had been relatively uneventful. But there was always the chance that another Glady was lurking just around the corner, or another Norman Keyes, or a Tony Roselli: someone whose suspicions they would unwittingly arouse, who would insist on answers to the mystery that swirled around Remington's origins, who wouldn't stop until he or she had revealed the head of the agency for the fraud he was.

Was is it a new danger? Of course not. She'd been dealing with the possibility of exposure, disgrace and loss since the day she'd opened the agency's door. It was a gamble she'd been willing to take. Not so long ago, she'd been just fine with allowing him to take it with her. But that was before Ireland, when he'd shared the closely guarded secret of the series of shattering endings and displacements that were his childhood.

And before this afternoon, and his confession about another woman he'd loved, one who had—how had he put it? Asked him to put on a made-to-order self, just for her. A self, a man, she'd used. A man she'd thrown away when he no longer served her purposes.

Losing the agency was one thing. The potential harm to him during the process was quite another.

It made his refusal even to entertain the idea of changing his name more frustrating than ever.

She'd have to convince him, that was all. She'd put together the telling argument, strike the decisive note, wear him down, if necessary. It was only a matter of time-

Suddenly his voice cut through her reverie. "Laura!"

He was staring at her almost indignantly, she discovered. "Sorry, what?"

"For the third time: ready to call it a night?"

"Sure." And she scrambled to pick up her empty glass and trail him into the house.

While he was in the shower, she dug out one of the books they'd bought in London and brought it back to bed with her. It was an anthology that featured two of Mrs. Easby's stories—the perfect way to block out distractions and clear her head. She began to read.

At last he came in, looking, thank goodness, like his usual self, barefoot, bare-chested, a towel slung around his neck. Pitching it to the end of the bed, he got in on his side and brushed the strap of her nightgown aside to press his lips to her bare shoulder—affectionate, rather than passionate. It spoke volumes about how much the stress of self-disclosure had tired him out.

"What have we here?" He peered down at the book in her lap and grinned. "Ah, Great-Aunt Edina at last. Go on. I'm all ears."

He seemed to have gotten over his moodiness. She set the book aside. "Maybe later." Snuggling closer to him, beneath his arm, she rested her cheek on his chest. Now that the opportunity to talk was within reach, she wasn't sure where to start. "This hasn't been the best vacation so far, has it?"

"Did we really expect it to be?"

"I suppose not."

Absently he began to stroke her hair. "I'm sorry. I know I've asked a lot of you, insisting we revisit my past-"

"Don't." She silenced him with a finger on his lips. "Don't ever apologize for wanting to be honest with me."

He studied her upturned face in mock apprehension. "Oh, no. You've got that look in your eye."

"What look?"

"The one you get when you've something unpleasant to impart. It never bodes well."

"Just thinking."

"Unpleasant thoughts, I take it."

"More like aggravating. At least from your point of view." She paused, gearing up for the inevitable conflict. "Remember what you said earlier, about what you've come to value since you became Remington Steele?"

"I meant every word of it."

"I was thinking that's what you'd have if you took the name John Chalmers."

"Back to that again." He blew out a sigh of mild annoyance.

"I know, I know, you don't want to talk about it. I think we have to, in light of this afternoon. It changes everything."

"You've come up with a plan to pull it off without harming the agency?"

"Not yet, but if we put our heads together-"

"Then nothing's changed, Laura. It's out of the question. Leave you in the lurch? Stir up potential suspicion about Remington Steele's past? Fine show of gratitude that would be, after all you've done for me."

"Daniel did more."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"It meant so much to him, not letting his father's name die. It might be a way for you to repay what you owe him."

The beginnings of a frown were darkening his brow. "What I do or don't owe him is open to debate and beside the bloody point. It isn't a competition, where I choose a name according to who loves me most. It's about looking out for one another, the way we promised to when we got married. Daniel doesn't need me anymore. You do."

"And that's what _I'm_ doing, looking out for you. I want you to see how important this is, instead of dismissing it out of hand. The Chalmers name is a connection to something real, your family, your identity…what you should have had from the day you were born."

"I have a connection to a real family." And he indicated his wedding ring.

"You know what I mean."

The frown was deeper now; his hand dropped from her hair. "Why can't you just let it go?

"Why can't you keep an open mind about it?"

"Because we've been through this. The night we got engaged, wasn't it? I told you Remington Steele's who I want to be, and you said"-a telltale huskiness thickened his voice—"you said that I'd already taken the place of your fantasy boss."

"You did. You have. You're everything he was supposed to be and more. But maybe there's supposed to be more to you than Remington Steele."

"Laura, that's probably the most idiotic thing you've ever said to me."

"Why?" She pulled away from him and sat up. "I saw the drawing you did when Robbie challenged you. And heard what he and Kate had to say about it. Professionals, both of them, praising your work! You're gifted, just like the rest of the Chalmers. Why wouldn't you want to be one of them?"

"Remington Steele's a detective, not a commercial artist."

"A profession your family doesn't respect very highly, in case you hadn't noticed."

He shrugged. "Let them think what they like. It's you that matters, and you need your partner, whether you're seeing it clearly or not."

A sound of inarticulate frustration escaped her. She put her hand to her forehead. "You haven't been listening to a word I've said. You need your family!"

"You're the one who's not listening." By now he was sitting up, too, every muscle of his body tensed. "I'm not putting you and the agency at risk by giving up Remington Steele to become John Chalmers."

"And I'm not letting Remington Steele stand in the way of everything you might have as John Chalmers!"

"You'd better tell me what you mean by that, and quick." She didn't respond right away. "Laura," he said warningly.

"I'm saying I want you announce to your family at the party Friday night that you're going to do it—you're taking their name."

"That's what you want, is it?"

"It's what I want."

"And if I don't want it?"

"You will. You just need to get used to the idea."

"Regardless of what may happen to the agency."

"We'll figure that out later."

"No, we won't, Laura, because I won't do it, and that's final. And I'm done talking about it." She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. "You're wasting your breath, because I won't hear one more word. No more! I mean it!" And to illustrate the point, he turned away, slid down into the bed, and drew the sheet up and over his shoulders.

"I'm not finished here!"

"Oh, yes, you are." He stretched up to switch off the bedside lamp.

She waited a moment, but he neither moved nor spoke again. "Fine," she snapped. Grabbing her pillow and book, she took refuge in the living room, where she made herself comfortable on one of the overstuffed sofas.

She wasn't sure how much time had gone by when she glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. He was wavering in the archway that led to the hall. "Laura, are you coming back to bed or not?"

She refused to look up from the page. "Not."

She sensed, rather than saw, the intensity of his gaze on her. There was a long silence.

"Suit yourself." He turned and padded away.

She raised her voice to ensure that he heard her. "I intend to."

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Madame Beaubien, the realtor from Agence Beaubien Immobilier, Menton, was everything Laura was afraid a Frenchwoman would be, chic, self-confident and faintly superior. She arrived at the villa promptly at ten the next day and proceeded to scrutinize the house with authority, Remington with admiration, and Laura in her shorts, tank top and athletic shoes with blatant amusement.

Her husband had greeted her with a derisive grin when she'd joined him and Mme. Beaubien in the kitchen—their first encounter of the day. "Ah, there you are, Mrs. Steele! Off for your morning run, I see."

"You know how I am about sticking with a routine." She turned to the realtor and held out her hand. "Laura Steele."

"Marie-Marthe Beaubien. I was explaining to Mr. Steele the state of the market for homes in Menton this summer. It's a seller's market, as you Americans like to say." She was taking a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. "These are some comparisons--"

Laura waved her off. "That's okay. I'm sure Mr. Steele has matters well in hand."

"At the top of my game, as usual, darling."

"Then I'll leave it to you." Without waiting for an answer, she strode to the door.

Out on the rue Ferdinand Bac, she walked for a while, getting a feel for the terrain around her. The road was smooth enough, but not level, rising and falling as it curved through the hills. The steep banks that climbed on either side were thickly wooded with cypresses, palms and olive trees, and trapped the sun between them, so that, though it was only mid-morning, it was already baking. No problem for her, California girl that she was. It looked as if her choice was either to plot a course downhill, towards the harbor, or head north and higher into the hills. The idea of saving the most rigorous portion of the run until last appealed to her. She drew in a deep breath, and pushed off in the direction of the Mediterranean.

Their waking hours over the preceding days had been so crammed with travel, visits and meetings that she'd had barely a moment to herself, let alone for her exercise regimen. Now she lost herself in the speed and motion, the pounding of her shoes on the asphalt, the coordinated workings of her breathing and heartbeat. Concentrated thought wasn't achievable, but it didn't matter. At this juncture, she welcomed a respite from thinking.

She ran for a long time, turning south onto one of the roads that ran parallel to the sea, but avoiding the beach itself. At last, almost grudgingly, she slowed her pace, giving herself the break she would need for the journey back uphill. That was the thing about running, she reflected: the freedom and release you felt at the outset was, in reality, temporary. The moment always came when you had to return to your starting point.

And you couldn't always outrun your thoughts.

To give herself credit, she'd assimilated that little truth years ago, and so running away wasn't her goal. The adrenaline rush, that was what she was after. The chemical high soaking her brain, washing away the emotional miasma from yesterday, so that she could think their over their conflict logically and come up with a way to defuse it. Anything was better than continuing to beat her head against the brick wall where her resolution and Remington's opposition had collided.

She'd stuck to her guns the night before by sleeping in the villa's middle bedroom. Calling it 'sleep' was a stretch, of course. If the sound of pillows being punched and squeaking mattress springs were any indication, Remington, on the other side of the wall that divided them, had had the same problem. Today, this morning, they had by unspoken agreement practiced complete avoidance of one another--not altogether easy, given the size of the house. It reminded her of their stay at the Friedlich Spa last year, where they'd had their worst fight to date, followed by forty-eight hours of struggling to maintain the silent treatment in uncomfortably close quarters. They hadn't managed it very well then. She was willing to bet it wouldn't be any easier now.

Why was he being so stubborn? It honestly bewildered her. He was perfectly capable of contrariness for its own sake, but generally it was for the pleasure of proving how quickly he could set her off. What was missing now was any hint that he was amusing himself, the trademark smirk, the clever little barbs at her expense. She'd have to be completely oblivious not to recognize that he was in dead earnest about the stance he'd taken…and, underneath it, deeply angry.

Angry with Daniel? Without a doubt. Until their arrival the other night she'd had no inkling how much Remington had set his heart on finding some sort of final farewell from Daniel at the villa, or at least some key to the enigma that was his past. Remington had played it, to borrow Robbie's phrase, extremely close to the vest. It was a stark reminder that he was still in many respects a closed book to her, one that might never be easy to read. As far as the anger went, however, she took his side completely. No matter how much she'd learned to sympathize with Daniel since he'd died, she couldn't give him a pass on this one. She was too familiar with what her husband was suffering: the impotent rage that builds up in a child when a beloved father chooses to remain silent rather than speaking. Another issue they had in common. Unintentional the cruelty on Daniel's part, or Jack Holt's, may have been. It was cruelty nevertheless.

Still, the pieces didn't fit. Remington had carried anger around with him for years, directed at the same object, though with a greater intensity. Daniel had said that he had grown up hating his absent father and that the hatred had never died. But he hadn't let it stop him three years ago from searching for clues about his name in Kerry Clare. Presumably he had restrained it last fall, before meeting with the Earl of Claridge to determine whether he was the Earl's long-lost son. In both cases she'd taken it for granted that he would exchange his Remington Steele identity for the real one if he were successful. She'd never asked him whether he would or not; she hadn't thought she needed to.

So his vociferous objections to 'John Chalmers' made less sense than ever. Did it mean anything that the other two leads had cropped up before they were married? If so, maybe that was why his response was different. He hadn't yet invested himself as fully in Remington Steele as he had over the past two months. He'd still lacked that whole-hearted commitment to his alter ego and to her, that new, fierce loyalty, the heightened protectiveness she'd begun to observe in him lately.

_Would he have pursued his real name if they _hadn't_ gotten married?_

She stumbled, almost fell. Her footsteps slowed; she stood in place, staring unseeingly out over the Mediterranean.

Could their marriage, and not Remington Steele, be the obstacle standing between him and his true identity, his heritage, his family?

That angle hadn't occurred to her. But now that it had, the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that perhaps she was on to something.

What had Remington said? 'I won't leave you in the lurch.' 'I'm looking out for you, the way we promised to in our wedding vows.' 'I refuse to put you at risk by becoming John Chalmers.'

It wasn't just that he was taking Steele seriously. He was taking their marriage seriously—more seriously than she could ever have anticipated from her commitment-shy, footloose partner.

Was she in her way as bad as Anna—turning him into an expedient through the identity she'd manufactured for him?

She went back in her memory over the sequence of events following Daniel's death. What could they have done differently to avoid this outcome? Not much, she had to admit. There was far more they should have undone. If only they had waited to get married. If only he'd been impervious to her mother's and sister's needling. If only she had taken time to think over his proposal—a few days, a week—instead of doing what she rarely did: make a snap decision.

Oh, yes. That was the root of the mess. She, Laura Steele, the level-headed, the prudent, the analytic, had been indulging lately in an orgy of irrationality, leading with her heart rather than her head. Remington the sole purchaser of Patsy Vance's house. Well, the jury was still out on that. The placement of Daniel's monument. Not a big deal? Maybe not, but it was a symptom nevertheless. And she'd probably committed a thousand little lapses like it, simply because she was so happy with Remington, and because the sexual side of their relationship was so damned _good_…

She'd been operating against her own best instincts ever since Ireland. And it had returned to haunt her with a vengeance.

For it had led to a marriage that might prove the worst thing in the world for the person she loved best.

The coldness was spreading. She needed to get moving again. Maybe, if she tried her hardest, she could, against all odds, outrun her thoughts.

Back at the villa, it didn't help matters that the BMW had disappeared and her husband with it—an insensitivity that provoked a fresh surge of anger towards him. Restless, fuming, goaded by anxiety, she showered quickly and donned a bathing suit. The pool was the only appealing spot in this godforsaken hellhole. She swam laps until she was exhausted, and then lay out in the sun, hoping the golden heat would lull her into some semblance of calm.

She was startled awake by the sound of iron scraping on stone. Remington was dragging a chair closer to the chaise on which she was lying. "I expect there's no use in my asking if you want to go down to the beach," he said.

She sat up a little groggily. "None at all."

"Well, then, you might at least have waited, instead of taking a swim without me."

His sarcasm acted on her like a red flag on a bull. "Next time leave a note telling me where you're going and what time you'll be back, before you take off." And she swung her legs over the side of the chaise, prepared to leap to her feet and storm into the house.

With a hand on her chest he pressed her backward, not roughly, but with a firmness that meant he would brook no resistance. "Laura, don't."

In silence they sized each other up. She had subsided unwillingly against the cushions of the chaise, but was poised to bolt, glaring at him. His eyes were full of the same fire. But then he glanced away briefly, a suggestion that he was opting to stand down from their duel of wills. "This is too much like old times for my taste," he said.

"Which part?"

"All of it. The fighting. Ignoring each other. Sleeping alone. Take your pick."

"I don't appreciate being cut off in the middle of a sentence when I'm trying to get a point across."

"No more than I appreciate your badgering me on a subject I've asked you twice to drop."

"So now it's badgering? Thanks a lot."

"Poor choice of words." And he lifted both hands with the palms out to avert the flow of indignation he apparently suspected was coming next.

But she could tell a temporary truce when she saw one, and sighed. "We're not getting anywhere like this, Mr. Steele."

"Agreed." He eyed her warily. "I'm open to suggestions on how to avoid another blowup."

She relaxed a little more, the alternative of fleeing to the house suspended for the time being. "You could try hearing me out, no snide comments, no exclamations of outrage, no muttering under your breath, until I'm through."

"When have I ever done any of that when we're having a serious conversation?" She arched an eyebrow. "I'll do my best to rein it in," he added hastily.

"Okay." Difficult to say why, but suddenly it felt like the last opportunity she would have to present her case; she didn't want to screw it up. It occurred to her that a physical connection might be helpful, so she reached over and took his hands. Choosing her own words carefully, she said: "All I'm asking is for you to believe I want what's best for you. And to try and understand what it's been like for me, hearing the truth about your past."

Immediately he was on the defensive. "I've told you over and over, I'm not that man anymore. I don't know how else to prove it to you--"

"You don't have to. I was telling the truth when I said I accepted those parts of you. But you can't expect me just to listen to the stories, and not react. You can't expect it not to affect me to find out how you've been used…how you've been hurt…by people who pretended to love you."

"Over and long forgotten. After all, I'm the resilient sort. You've said so yourself."

He was shooting for lightheartedness, but it fell flat. "Not forgotten. Buried," she countered. "And maybe not as deep as you'd like to think. Then there's what you say about life as Remington Steele, what it gives you--what you never had anywhere else--stability, identity, permanence--"

"It does."

"It can't. That's what I've been trying to make you see, why I've been trying to persuade you to be who you really are, a Chalmers--"

"Trying to fix what no longer needs fixing."

"Trying to get you to accept what you've searched for all your life, something to hold onto, something permanent."

"Permanent," he said slowly.

"You said that mattered to you."

"Permanent," he repeated, his face darkening. "As opposed to impermanent." In a rapid movement she hadn't anticipated, he pulled away from her and sat upright. "This isn't about me and my name at all. This is you, hedging your bets, isn't it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Here I've been, baring my soul, so to speak, the differences between my old self and the new man I've become. And all the while the same old Laura's been scurrying about in the background, shoring up the same old defenses against me."

From what in everything she'd said had he inferred that? She gazed at him, feeling helpless. "How, the same old Laura—?"

"You're not sure it's going to work between us, so you're setting up an out for yourself, just in case."

"Oh, I get it. It's easier to question my motives than admit I'm right, is that it?"

"You're not right. You're so astoundingly wrong, I'm speechless with it. Always the pessimist where we're concerned! Never willing to give us—me--the benefit of the doubt!"

He sprang up to make a furious circuit of the patio. "I knew it was too good to be true, when you said you'd marry me on the spot, without taking time to think it over. It must've been eating you alive ever since. You didn't _plan_ it. You hadn't worked out every contingency beforehand. 'What if he leaves me?' 'What if he decides commitment isn't for him, after all?' It's what's been going through your mind the entire time we've been married, isn't it? Isn't it?"

It was as if he'd read her earlier thoughts. Immediately the blood mounted from her neck to forehead, as vivid a confirmation of his suspicions as any he could have asked. She could only pray he wasn't paying enough attention to spot it.

He wasn't. "And now it's fallen into your lap. Your back-up strategy, readymade for you, thanks to Daniel. Turn me into a Chalmers, though Lord only knows how you intend to explain that to everyone. Take Remington Steele back into your hands, where he properly belongs. Then you're safe. Then you're in control again. Laura Holt, calling the shots, in the agency, in our relationship, the only way you can stand for it to be!"

She had jumped up as well, and now advanced on him, hands balled into fists. "Hold it right there, champ. Forgetting everything you just said, since it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard--I'm doing this for you! For you, damn it! And yes, I'm thinking about worst case scenarios! Who wouldn't? Bad things happen. Marriages fail. Look at your parents—look at mine! Or what if somebody figures out I invented Remington Steele, that he's not real? Keyes came close—so did Gladys Lynch—so did Roselli. If it all blows up in our faces one day, I don't want you left with nothing when it ends!"

"I'll tell you what it is." He came to a halt and faced her squarely. "You pick a poor sod up out of the moral gutter, as it were. Take him in hand, make a credible detective of him…even marry him. But his past isn't forgotten, is it? The low class upbringing, the bad deeds. You're still better than he is. You've still got that edge over him. Only you haven't anymore, have you? I've a mother, a father, a family history. I'm as respectable as you are, and you're scared to death of it!"

"That's just great!" she shouted. "That's just like you, acting like I'm the controlling witch, jealous of every good thing that happens to you! I guess it's escaped your notice that I'm the one who's dragging you kicking and screaming to claim what's rightfully yours. Oh, and by the way? Interesting way to put it, 'scared to death'. It's how I would've described you. All these years, this perpetual quest you've been on for your real name. And now you've found it; all you have to do is reach out and grab it. What's the matter? The prospect of total commitment too scary for you?"

"I guess it's escaped _your_ notice that I've already made a commitment as Remington Steele. It's called wedding vows. The words, Laura!" He was red-faced, roaring. "The words! What you've always wanted from me, and by God, I meant them! And now you're asking me to betray every promise I made you that day. Not to mention everything Remington Steele is in the first place!"

She had never seen him so angry. For herself, she could have pounded her head against the patio's stone flags from a combination of rage and frustration. Instead she smacked her fist into the palm of the other hand. "How many times do I have to say it? What does it take to get through to you--a movie annotation? What? You're my husband first, Remington Steele second! You don't have to be Steele for my sake! I don't _want_ you to be Steele, not like this!"

For an interval—just how long was hard to say—they stood motionless, breathing hard, implacable as a pair of enemies.

He pinned her with a furious blue stare and crossed his arms. "Are you through?"

"Give me a minute, and I'll let you know."

"No, you listen to me, and listen well, because I won't say it twice. I'm done devising exit strategies for when life gets too uncomfortable for me. Pity I can't say the same for you, seeing how you've already forgotten the inscription you had engraved on my wedding ring."

She waited, but he went no further. "That's it?" she demanded.

"That's it."

The statement made no sense to her. But had any of it made sense? Could any two people speaking the same language have understood each other less than they had just now? More, had she recently, in all sincerity, actually complimented this man on his mental acuity? He was an idiot! Unable to stand another minute of it—of him—she dodged abruptly around him and dashed for the house.

Once behind the closed door of the third bedroom, however, the reaction began to set in. Her nerves jangled with it; her ears rang with it. How peculiar that she couldn't recall a single thing she'd said or that he had. But the expression on his face, the raw fury in his voice: those were burned, impressed indelibly, into every faculty. There was no remedy on earth that could possibly erase them.

They would never repair it. They would never repair the damage now. Her earlier presentiment had been correct. This was her final chance to make the case for the name change. No matter what transpired between them in the future, 'John Chalmers' would be inextricably linked to this argument, and all the ugliness it had called forth from them both. There was no way she would ever get him to hear her again, let alone understand what she was driving at.

She sank down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands.

A door slammed in another part of the house. Hurried footsteps sounded on the living area's tile floor. In response she braced herself for what she was sure was coming, her own door bursting open, a second round of the quarrel about to ensue.

But the footsteps neither drew nearer nor paused. Instead there was only the reverberation as the door was slammed again.

And, after that, the unbroken stillness of the house, empty except for her.

* * *

At eight the next morning, Laura slipped out of the villa and ran down the steps that led to the rue Ferdinand Bac.

The day was fresh and clear around her, pervaded by the invigorating scents of pine, olive and lemon, by the golden sunshine spilling down. Immune to them, she gazed in both directions along the quiet, empty road. The BMW, parked in the cul-de-sac, was the only car in sight.

She frowned in impatience. She was expecting Gilbert Trottier and his ancient Peugeot any minute, the final element of her carefully considered arrangements. Everything else was ready. Her bags packed, waiting to be carried down and loaded into the Peugeot's trunk. Her good-bye note written. There only remained to wake Remington to tell him she was leaving and to hand him the envelope. If she timed it right, she would be off to l'Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur before he completely lost his temper, and could thus avoid a repetition of yesterday's disastrous fight.

Her initial idea had been to leave the letter in a prominent place, where he would be sure to see it, and simply to sneak away—or even to forego a letter at all. But when push came to shove, she'd realized that it wouldn't do. She'd made a decision, and she would have the guts to face up to the consequences, however painful they would be. Besides, she remembered all too vividly what it was like to be on the receiving end of such treatment. Angry as she was at Remington, she couldn't bear the thought of putting him through it. The rest would be bad enough.

She waited a moment more. Still no Gilbert. Nothing remarkable about that; she'd already noticed that punctuality wasn't one of his strong suits. He had a lot in common with her husband in that respect.

Inside the villa again, she retrieved the letter from the bedroom where she'd slept again last night and eased the door shut behind her. Her purse she'd left with the suitcases near the villa's entrance, but now it struck her that it was wiser to carry it with her. No telling how quick an exit she might need to make; no sense taking a chance she might forget it in her haste.

She had all but reached it when she heard a door open. Remington came into the room, clad only in pajama bottoms, toothbrush in hand.

There was no exit nearby. There was no hiding place to duck into. She could only square her shoulders, tilt her chin and inhale, exhale. She would get through this. She was expert at it. Concentration directed towards the outcome, the objective. Emotions blocked out until the goal was achieved.

He'd absorbed the scene in a single glance, luggage included. "What the bloody—? What is this?" His eyes fastened on her face, stunned, bewildered.

She returned his gaze long enough to see that much. Then she forced herself to look away before it could shake her. "I'm going back to Los Angeles."

"Is it your mother? Why didn't you wake me? What time's the flight?"

"…I'm going alone."

"So that's where we're at?"

"That's where we're at."

She'd almost forgotten how fast his reflexes were. Even before the words were out of her mouth, he'd crossed the room and had her by the wrist, pulling her along with him. It was interesting, she noted dispassionately, how little force he seemed to be exerting overall. Yet his grip was inexorable.

In the bathroom he rinsed his mouth, spat toothpaste, straightened. The letter was still in her hand; he snatched it up, brows drawing together as he read his name on the envelope. "I take it this is meant to put me in the picture?" Without waiting for her reply, he tore it in two, then in two again, and let the fragments drift to the floor. "Suppose you tell me to my face what it says."

"You wouldn't make the right choice. I'm making it for you."

"The translation of 'right choice' being, what you want me to do. And you think running home will convince me."

"I think you'll be able to think more clearly if I'm not around, especially in London."

"What about the Chalmers party?

"You're the one they're waiting to meet. No one will even miss me."

"Except me. I don't imagine that makes any difference to you." He regarded her with narrowed eyes. "You mean it, do you? You get on a plane to Los Angeles, I get on a plane to London, we go our separate ways?"

Girding herself for the storm she'd been praying fervently to avoid, she nodded.

But he surprised her. With another of those lightning movements, he gathered her into the circle of his arms and pulled her close against him. "You might at least give me a chance to tell you good-bye," he said softly, and brought his mouth down on hers.

It wasn't an eventuality she'd planned for. She had no defense ready against the potency of his kisses, or the feel of his hands caressing her. Struggling to maintain her composure, she pulled slightly away, her own arms at her sides. He sensed it, of course, and withdrew just enough to gaze down at her in reproach. "Ah, no," he whispered, his breath warm on her lips. "Two nights without you…far too long." His embrace tightened; he kissed her again, with all the unfulfilled longing, the thwarted desire, they'd stored up between them since Sunday night.

Instinct took over, irresistible. She gave herself up to it and to him. Her eyes closed; her arms looped around his neck. After all, she had missed him just as much as he'd missed her. And who knew how long it would be until they would kiss like this again?

When it ended, she stood quietly against him, head bowed. She had to fight to tune him out—his ragged breathing, his racing heartbeat--but she succeeded, and concentrated on her own breathing. At length, focus regained, she met his eyes. "You really have seen too many movies if you think overpowering me with romance will distract me."

"Have I?"

"Or get me to change my mind."

His hand came up to cup her breast. "You'd be far more convincing, Laura, if the proof that you want me weren't so plain to see."

"Oh, stop it." Impatiently she brushed his hand aside. "Of course I want you. That hasn't changed. You know perfectly well it's got nothing to do with why I'm going home."

"Why you're leaving me, you mean." His arms dropped from around her. "I thought you loved me."

He didn't bother to conceal the anguish in his voice. There was a catch in her own when she replied. "I do. I do love you."

"Then--wait for me. Give me an hour. I'll come with you."

She shook her head.

"Why not?"

"Because if you're coming back as Remington Steele, I'd rather you didn't come at all."

Silence, long and terrible. Instructive in the meantime to observe the transformation that occurred in his face. Up until then, it had been confused, wounded. What took its place was a bitter mask—the same one he'd adopted the other night, as soon as it hit home that his father had dashed his hopes one more time, for the last time.

Bitter was one thing. Impassive was quite another, and apparently beyond him. His eyes were blazing, his teeth showing in what was almost a growl. "Is this what you really want?" he said harshly. "Think carefully before you answer, because you may not like the consequences."

"It's what I really want."

"Well, then, what if I said I'd do it? Take you at your word, eh? Serve you bloody well right, too." His voice was rising in volume. "You go home; I go to London. Take the money, change my name to John Chalmers, and be damned for good to your precious agency, your stupid Remington Steele!"

"I'd say you were finally talking sense." Her own impassivity intact, she pushed past him out of the bathroom.

"Laura, wait!" he shouted. He overtook her, passed her, then turned to bar her way, hands closing around her upper arms. "What about this? You come to London with me, and I'll tell them at the party. But we make a clean break with Los Angeles at the same time. No more of this ridiculous dodging and hiding, juggling alias upon alias upon alias. Remington Steele retires; we close the agency. And we'll see what we can make of ourselves in London as John and Laura Chalmers."

At first she wasn't quite sure she'd heard him right. But no: he must have said what she thought he had. It was the only explanation for the way he was looking at her, half desperate, half expectant, balanced on the edge between either sweeping her into his arms in delighted relief, or storming off in unforgiveness and rejection.

She opened her mouth to reply. Of course, that's what they would do! It was the perfect compromise; she didn't understand why she hadn't thought of it herself. No need to put him, or herself, through the wrench of separation. No need to experience the personal hell of inflicting hurt on this man she loved so much, and seeing it etched on his face. And he would be safely ensconced within his family, exactly what she'd been fighting him for, the point of the entire exercise.

Then reality flooded in, cold and pitiless. Hadn't she had enough of making snap decisions? Especially in light of the fact that they still dealing with the fallout from the first and worst? Not that closing the agency could ever compare with marrying Remington along the spectrum of easy choices to make. There was so much more to consider, not just their livelihood, but Mildred's, the disposition of their assets, the effect it would have on her initial investment. She needed time to ponder the ramifications, weigh the consequences, before she could tell him yes or no…

Too late. For Remington had read the answer for himself, first in her silence, then in her hesitation. She knew it was so because he abruptly let go of her shoulders and retreated a step, a grim smile twisting his mouth.

It was the smile he'd worn yesterday while describing the moment when he'd finally understood Anna had betrayed him.

"Good to know some things never change," he said.

Behind him the villa's entrance door flew open, and Gilbert Trottier hustled into the room, thickly accented apologies for his tardiness preceding him. "…All is in readiness, if M'dame wishes to leave…"

"Wait---wait." Torn, Laura turned from him to Remington, stretching out her hand to her husband. "If we could just--"

But Remington cut her off. "Come now, mustn't drag our feet, must we, Mrs. Steele?" he chided her. "After all, you've a plane to catch." And with a hand at the small of her back, he steered her toward the suitcases. Two of them he handed off to Gilbert; the last one, the carry-on bag, he held out to Laura. When she didn't accept it immediately, he smiled that joyless smile again. "Well?"

There was nothing else to do but allow him to settle the strap over her shoulder, to pull her hair free and then smooth it into place. He performed the little services with the same faint air of proprietorship, the same thinly veiled tenderness, with which he'd handled her from the very beginning. But when she lifted her eyes to his face, it was hard as stone.

He held the door for her and ushered her through. On the threshold, she paused, composed on the outside, aching for him on the inside. He would never have guessed that she was searching frantically for a final word or gesture that would preserve the connection between them, however fragile and tattered it might be. But nothing came to mind except to tell him she was sorry, and that would never do, with the achievement of her goal within reach.

He was staring back at her. Were they really his, that white, set face, those glittering eyes? "Never fear, Laura," he said. "I'll be in touch from wherever I end up so you'll know your new last name--presuming you intend to keep my name. Ah, but no—I'd forgotten. Yours'll always be Steele, won't it. Since you're married to the agency first and to me second."

He gave her no opportunity to respond. As soon as he had finished speaking, he turned away from her and went back into the house, pushing the door shut behind him as he went.

There was no further sight or sound of him. All that was left for her was to follow the path she'd marked out for herself, toward the Peugeot parked on the rue Ferdinand Bac, and, beyond it, to the airport in Nice.

And, beyond that, to a Los Angeles where the agency named for Remington Steele awaited her. But where the man called Remington Steele did not.

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"You're positive there isn't anything else I can get you Mr. Steele? A bloody Mary? A mimosa? There's still an hour before we land in London, you know."

Remington glanced up. The flight attendant was tall, blonde, lovely and openly solicitous of him, witnessed by the fact that she was offering champagne when he wasn't even seated in first class. "Thanks, no," he said. "I could do with a spot more coffee when you have the chance."

"Right away." And she bestowed on him the kind of smile that he would have accepted once upon a time for what it was intended to be, the opening gambit of a contest—or conquest. A pursuit whose end goal was never left in question. A carefully choreographed dance whose steps he could perform without thinking much about it, he knew them so well.

But today the smile's impact lasted only as long as it took him to turn his eyes towards the window, its effect no more than a passing stroke to his ego. The old seduction game was distinctly unappealing. Insipid as flat ginger ale, it was, compared to the heady Moët he'd been imbibing since he'd landed in Los Angeles. Besides, he'd gotten over his penchant for statuesque, light-haired women years ago. Sometime in the autumn of 1982, to be precise.

As for the superior taste that had supplanted it, he shied away from dwelling on it, lest he become completely unmanned in public.

It was good to be out and amongst people again, he had to admit. He'd cooped himself up in the Villa Montreuil much longer than was healthy for anyone, venturing forth only in the evenings, when the tourist crowds were diminished, to take the long walks that provided the only solace from his longing for Laura. True, he'd known himself unfit to see or be seen, not in his current state. But three days without company, except for the Trottiers, had driven him into introspection that had begun to border on despair. Naturally inclined to brood—the curse of the Irish temperament, wasn't it?—he ought to have known that silence and isolation were the worst alternatives for him. Another day or two of it, and he'd have been ready for a round of Maxine Gilroy's shriek therapy.

A relief, as well, to have broken out of the mental inertia that had paralyzed him since Wednesday morning. At least he was heading for London, though what he would do when he arrived at Simon Edwards Solicitors, heaven alone knew. Amused, he pictured to himself three of the possible means by which he could determine his decision, along with Alix' and Simon Edwards' reaction to them. Toss a coin, flip a card, roll the dice? To be a Chalmers, or not to be? Ah, that was still the question.

Even as he was conducted into Simon Edwards' office an hour and a half later, he was asking it of himself.

Edwards came forward to shake his hand. "Good to see you, Mr. Steele. Dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience we've caused you with the paperwork. But I trust you found everything in order at the Villa Montreuil? And that your stay in Menton was enjoyable?"

"An experience I won't soon forget, I'd say."

"Mrs. Steele's not with you today?" said Alix.

"An urgent business matter required her presence in Los Angeles."

"We're sorry to have missed her." Alix motioned toward the conference table that dominated one end of the office. "Shall we? It won't take long."

Between them, she and her uncle had the trust documents well organized. While he read the various conditions and clauses aloud, she slid the appropriate page over to Remington, pointing out the areas where he was expected to append his initials. It was proceeding much more quickly than he had anticipated; they were barely giving him a moment in which to ponder his options.

But why would they? They had no reason to believe it was necessary. In their eyes he was the legitimate Chalmers heir, fully entitled to this legacy and the symbolic implications of headship that it entailed.

As, in fact, he was.

So why did he feel such a fraud?

God, how he needed Laura beside him.

With a start he realized that he'd been tuning out what was happening around him. A second woman had entered the room; Alix had taken up a large, official-looking silver stamp. Naturally, since she was the notary who would validate his signature, while the other woman served as witness to it.

There only remained for him to inscribe his name in that bold, vertical, looping hand which, over the past five years, the world had accepted at face value as the signature of the head of Remington Steele Investigations.

And he would receive, in exchange? Not a fortune, by any means. But together with the legacy from Daniel, and the proceeds from selling the Villa Montreuil, it would be plenty to establish him somewhere as…someone.

John Chalmers? Wasn't that why he was here today? It was the ultimatum with which he'd threatened Laura and the one she'd taken up eagerly. She wanted it. His cousins were obviously ready to welcome him. Why should he be the only one who was reluctant?

On the other hand, if he was unwilling to become part of the family, wasn't it wrong to take the money?

But if he didn't, who would he be? Who _could _he be?

Jean Murrell, John Robie, Paul Fabrini? Ah, the temptation towards the shady life, the life he knew best, lurking beneath his newly minted respectability! Without Laura to keep him on the straight and narrow, how long would he be able to resist it?

What would Remington Steele do in a case like this, if he existed?

Better yet: what would Laura do?

What would _Laura_ do? Who gave a damn?

"Mr. Steele?" said Simon Edwards.

"Mr. Steele?" said his niece.

Remington adjusted the angle of the paper and put his pen to the bottom line. A second, two, ticked by. Then he laid the pen down and gazed across the table at Alix. "I can't." And he pushed the page toward the center of the table.

The two solicitors met his eyes blankly. "I don't understand," said Simon Edwards.

"Neither do I, actually." He struggled for words to explain the inexplicable. "The only reason I can give is that I'm not prepared to fulfill my father's final request."

"But that was never a stipulation for handing on the trust," said Alix. "I thought you understood that it was merely your father's wish that you take your grandfather's name, and not a condition."

"I did. I do. But it appears to me almost…underhanded…to accept a valued legacy, if I don't accept the family obligations attached to it as well."

"Let me reassure you, Mr. Steele, no such implication exists," said Simon Edwards.

"Not to others, perhaps. But it does to me." Remington smiled wryly. "Let's call it a point of personal honor, shall we? And leave it at that?"

"Whatever you say." The other man eyed him doubtfully.

With a nod of the head, Alix dismissed the unnecessary witness from the room. Then she turned back to Remington. "Is there nothing we can do to convince you?"

"Nothing at all, I'm afraid. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," said Simon Edwards. "But I do want to emphasize to you that the money remains in trust, irrevocable, non-transferable. The life interest is yours—well, just as you would suppose, for life. If one day you should change your mind…"

It was on the tip of Remington's tongue to say that nothing whatever would induce him to do so, but he refrained. "I'll remember." He rose. "Thank you. You've been enormously kind."

There was little left to do except shake hands again and exchange farewells. But as Alix accompanied him to the door, he halted. "I understand the trust is irrevocably mine and can't be transferred. But would it also be correct that I have a say in the disposition of the interest?"

"How do you mean?"

"I have a cousin, John Carmichael Dalgleish. He's the eldest grandson. I'm wondering if there's a way for you to make over the interest to him."

I'm not sure. I'll have to research it and let you know." She looked at him thoughtfully. "An interesting proposal, Mr. Steele."

"Oh, I don't know about that. But something tells me it's the right thing to do."

It was when he was passing out of the doors and onto the street that a thought occurred, unbidden: how proud Laura would have been of him, not for the decision itself—of that, she would have disapproved—but the motivation behind it.

On its heels followed a savage stab of anger. Who cared a damn what Laura thought?

He ran a hand over his face. He did, he was afraid. His obstinate heart persisted in caring very, very deeply.

It was well after three in the afternoon before he finally checked in at their usual hotel, the St. John in Mayfair. The truth was, dreading the thought of his Laura-less room, he'd delayed it as long as he could. He'd even taken a drive out to the cemetery where Daniel's monument stood. For what purpose, he wasn't quite sure in the beginning. But after more than twenty minutes of fruitless wandering he'd finally had to acknowledge that he'd no idea where the blasted marker _was_. The resultant explosion of rage—rage at Daniel, rage at Laura—had nevertheless made it clear to him that what he'd been after was a last conversation with his father. The kind of scene he'd picked up, no doubt, from the movies, a dramatic graveside monologue in which he would air out their issues, arrive at an understanding, and from which he would walk away with a tidy resolution under his belt. In other words, something as far from real life as it could possibly get. He'd planned to spend half an hour pouring his heart out to…a block of carved granite. He could just picture Daniel's response to such an absurdity, the comically lifted eyebrow, the barely suppressed laughter: 'My dear boy, have you gone absolutely stark, staring _mad_?' It had evoked, in its turn, laughter from him, not long or loud, but the first genuine laugh he'd had since the catastrophe between him and Laura. With it had come a softening in his thoughts of his father. And it had made it somehow a little easier to face the loneliness of the St. John.

He opened the drapes, turned off the lamps, made a few necessary phone calls. The final one was to room service, for his first meal of the day; he hadn't much heart, he had to confess, to brave a pub or restaurant, not yet.

He was morosely considering the meager fare the BBC had to offer when a knock sounded on the door. Much sooner than he had foreseen; really, the service at the St. John was the best he had ever--

The last person he would have expected to see was waiting in the hallway: his aunt, Lillian Dalgleish.

Surprise had temporarily transfixed him, and she raised her eyebrows at his failure to greet her. "May I come in?"

"Please." In dumbfounded silence, he allowed her to brush by him, closed the door behind her, and trailed her into the room.

She gazed around with an inquiring air as she sat down. "Your wife's not here?"

"Laura's been called back Los Angeles unexpectedly. She'd want me to give you her regards, I'm sure."

"That should make things much simpler." She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him. "I'm here to ask you not to attempt to insinuate yourself farther into this family's notice."

"Ah." It came out on a long exhalation. So he had read her correctly last Saturday. In spite of the scrap with her that loomed ahead of him, it afforded him a kind of dark pleasure, this demonstration of the infallibility of his instincts about people.

"I did try my hardest, I want you to know. I tried to accept welcoming you into the family," Lillian was saying. "And I thought I had resigned myself to the idea of Robbie's party. But the closer the date, the more repugnant I found it, the thought of your filling my father's place, however much or little involved with us you intend to be. It doesn't do. It doesn't do at all." A pause while she studied him. "Just as it doesn't do that Daniel would have had you christened John Chalmers when you were born—the name I intended for _my_ son."

"John Chalmers Dalgleish?"

"Whose steadiness of character makes him more his grandfather's heir than any superficial physical resemblance. I must say, you don't seem in the least taken aback by what I'm saying."

"I'm not. I've been wondering since we met when you'd get to it."

"Clever man."

"Not clever. Knocked about by experience. It does interest me, though, the way you describe how it's unfolded. Me, insinuating myself into the family. If memory serves, it's you who've searched me out, not the other way around."

"I wanted to discover for myself the kind of son my brother raised. And Robbie, who tends to become a little over-enthusiastic, as I'm sure you've noticed, went above and beyond what I'd asked of him."

"And?"

"And?" she echoed him.

"What kind of son did your brother raise?"

"The kind I would have expected--one exactly like him."

"I take it that's no compliment to him or me."

"Only if your ambition is to trade on charm, looks and a certain surface glibness while others carry you through life."

Even while he smarted under the jibe, he had to admire her perceptiveness. "That's how you knew Daniel. I saw him differently."

"Children never see their parents clearly." She leaned forward in her chair. "Let me tell you about my brother. He was spoilt from the moment he was born. Everything handed to him, nothing denied him. No expense spared in his upbringing or education. And what did it make him? A ne'er do well. A charming rogue. He took everything our parents gave without fulfilling a single hope they had for him. And took, and took again, and took still more."

It was his turn to administer a neat little cut. "You'll forgive me, but it sounds to me like a classic case of sibling rivalry."

"Rivalry implies competition," she retorted. "I would never have stooped to compete with Daniel, never. He was a disgrace to our parents. A layabout. A wastrel. One with a taste for low company, even from childhood, a taste I gather he passed down to you, given the kind of work you do. And when he married that wretched girl--"

"—You mean my mother?"

"—it confirmed the worst I already knew about him."

He flinched at the contempt in her voice. Though it had been ages since such had been directed towards him personally, he recognized it for what it was: the unreasoning prejudice some English harbored towards the Irish. "So you hated her as well," he said.

"I pitied her. She so clearly would have been out of her depth had she stayed among us. And my brother didn't help matters, since he was already proving as miserable a failure as a husband as he had been a son. I did my duty by her, of course, as a sister-in-law and as a woman. Sent food when they were short, money when she needed it--"

This was a different story from the one she'd given him at Bonnymead, when she had characterized her acquaintance with his mother as slight. Which version was the true one? Most likely he would never know. In any case it didn't matter. He had concluded a week ago that she was no friend to him.

Besides: money when his mother needed it? What the hell did that mean?

"—I even helped her when she first came home from hospital with you, since there was no one else to do it."

"And did you also--" his voice was shaking with enormity of the question he was about to ask—"did you also give her the money for her passage back to Ireland?"

"I may have. If I did, it was unawares."

"You're telling me you didn't know she was going back?"

"You don't suppose she confided in me, do you? I was as startled as Daniel when she left him."

Hatred had leapt up in him full-blown. "You broke up our family."

"I did not."

"Wormed your way in, pretended to be her friend, gave her money--"

"Untrue."

"—talked her into leaving. All because you hated my father."

She was staring back at him with all the asperity that he'd seen at Bonnymead, and more, yet completely calm. "My dear man, please, do think. Is it reasonable that anything _I_ would've said should have persuaded her, if your father hadn't made her desperately unhappy to begin with? Daniel made a fine job of destroying his family on his own, without any interference from me. And if you think otherwise, you're just as big a fool as he was."

"I don't believe you."

"It's not required that you should."

Head down, he took a few deep breaths. He was fighting with the temptation to stand up and hurl at her all the misplaced blame that he'd attributed to his father since he was old enough to understand what his life was. She had been the initiator of the whole grievous mess, unwittingly or not. And she could sit there, unruffled, unmoved, despising him! No wonder Daniel had refused to have anything to do with her.

But then pride took over. He'd see this hard-bitten old woman in hell before he'd give her the slightest glimpse of the private pain he'd revealed only to a trusted few. He lifted his head and said as evenly as possible, "I want you to go."

"As you wish."

In silence he accompanied her to the door. Just before he opened it for her, he fired his parting shot. "By the way, Mrs. Dalgleish? It might interest you to know that I've already called Robbie to tell him I'll have to miss the party. The same urgent business as Laura's is taking me back to Los Angeles. I'd hung up with him no more than ten minutes before you arrived, actually. So you see? You needn't have wasted the trip."

There was no discernible effect on his aunt. She inclined her head towards him and left.

Once he was alone again, he found himself doing exactly the thing for which he'd mocked himself earlier at the cemetery. He addressed his absent father aloud.

"Ah, Daniel, old man. I ought to have known better than to second guess you and why you stayed away from them. That'll teach me. Laura, too, I'll wager. So much for the safety of becoming a Chalmers."

He moved over to the window and stared out over the streets of London, willing himself to forget the quiet venom that had flowed from his aunt. To let it roll off him, as he'd learned to do successively as a boy with the Shaws, the Doyles, the Gallaghers and the O'Biernes. To pass it off as a confirmation of a truth instilled in him from his earliest days: there was no one who could more thoroughly make a child feel he was the scum of the earth than members of his own family.

So much for becoming a Chalmers, indeed.

But where in hell did that leave him now?

How he wanted Laura, and home.

* * *

On Saturday morning, burdened with the sense that he was, at present, more at loose ends than at almost any time in his adult life, Remington headed out from the St. John Mayfair.

His sole objective was a negative one, a vague resolve to avoid parts of town where he might run into his cousins. Other than that, he had no fixed destination. Realistically the odds that he would meet Robbie or Archie were a million to one, more or less. But just now he didn't fancy pushing the odds. Knightsbridge and Chelsea lay to the southwest; he turned north towards Westminster.

London in July was no different than the Riviera, thronged with vacationers, in cars, on foot. Aimlessly he strolled among the pedestrians, hand thrust deep into his pockets. Fascinating, how pressured and almost frantic other people could seem in comparison, when one had nothing to do and nowhere to go. He fought to suppress a yawn. Sleep had proven just as elusive in London as it had been in Menton; he'd spent most of last night slouched in an armchair, trying to find something, anything, on television that could occupy his attention for more than five minutes. The best he could do was some self-consciously morbid 60's film in which Vincent Price galloped around the English countryside accusing people of witchcraft. It had reminded him why he preferred American cinema to British.

If there was one bright spot, it was that his ability for putting the negative behind him hadn't thoroughly deserted him. That was what he was doing with his aunt's visit. Thank goodness his innate caution had kept him from investing too deeply, too soon, in the Chalmers family. His only regret was that he would probably lose the opportunity to build friendships with his cousins. The pang it caused him was slight; he hadn't been close enough to them for it really to hurt.

But for the first time he began to wonder. If he could do it with Lillian Dalgleish, was there a possibility he could put the negative behind him when it came to Laura?

That depended on her, didn't it? What if he took the chance and returned to Los Angeles, and she slammed the door in his face because he hadn't done what she wanted? He didn't put it past her to do it, when she was convinced she was right, never mind that what she asked of him had now become impossible.

Besides, why should he be the one to back down, crawl to her, when she was the one who'd walked out on him?

Yet he wanted to go home. In spite of everything, he continued to consider himself her Remington Steele. Her _husband_ Remington Steele.

It was an impenetrable, inextricable mess, one he couldn't grope his way out of. What he needed now was clear thinking…the hardest commodity to come by, it seemed.

He glanced around, awake to his surroundings for the first time. His path had taken him into Belgravia, an area he'd known relatively well a decade ago, in the heyday of his and Daniel's storied partnership in crime. He was in a neighborhood of elegant Regency townhouses that seemed particularly familiar. Why it should be, he couldn't recall. Had he pulled off a robbery here? If he had, it must have been a daring feat, given the tight security and ubiquitous police presence one would expect in an area that contained so much wealth in so few square miles. He deserved a retroactive tip of the hat for accomplishing it. But usually his memory of his exploits was better than this. Why wouldn't they surface, the victim's name, the loot with which he'd made off?

Then it hit him. It hadn't been a theft at all. This was the street to which he and Laura had tracked the Earl of Claridge's old-fashioned brougham last September while the Earl paid a clandestine call on his fiancée, Katherine Galt. It was here they'd watched until nightfall for a masked figure to venture forth into the darkness in search of a victim, just as Laura suspected it would. And it was a few blocks away, in the mews to which they'd trailed the brougham's driver, where he and Laura had fought for her life against the Whitechapel Slasher.

He turned his footsteps in that direction.

It wasn't a site that invited visits, not even in the daytime. But the trash and griminess were completely effective, all the same, for evoking recollections of that night.

Between them they'd subdued the Slasher and deprived him of the muffler and hat behind which he'd disguised himself. "Bradford Galt!" Laura had gasped from the interior of the brougham.

It was a face he'd never seen before, so the name meant nothing to him. "Who the hell is he?"

She'd explained in a few terse sentences, and he felt his mouth twist in contempt. The lowest form of life, in his opinion, a man who would harm a woman, let alone stalk and murder. He'd dispatched Galt with a fist to the jaw, perversely enjoying the force of the impact. Then he'd turned to Laura. "Come on. Out you get."

It was clear that she expected him to offer her his hand, but he'd taken her in his arms and lifted her from the carriage to the ground. "You'll hurt yourself!" she'd protested.

He'd silenced her with a brief, hard kiss—the first time he'd kissed her, held her, since their dance at the Top of the Mark back in May. "Sh."

In the comparatively brighter light of the mews her dishevelment was more visible, and it triggered the initial stirrings of anger in him. "What did he do to you? Hit you, didn't he? He'd never have gotten you in there without a fight otherwise."

She ducked away slightly as he grasped her chin in his hand. "It's no big deal."

"Laura." His voice was low, but with an undertone of steel. "Let me see." And he tilted her face to the lamplight.

The mark was on her left cheek, which made sense, since he had good reason to know that Galt led with his right. He fingered it lightly. There wasn't any damage to the bone, thank God, nor was the skin broken, but the blow had been enough to knock her out. At the thought of her helpless in the other man's clutches, anger exploded like a blood-red mist obscuring his vision; swiftly he whirled and administered a vicious kick to the still-unconscious Galt. "Bastard."

"Don't." She had him by the arm and was holding him back, increasing the pressure when he resisted. It was only when he relaxed somewhat that she released him. "Think between us we can get him to the police station?"

"We may get him in, but I may not get out. Have you forgotten I'm still a wanted man?"

"A case of mistaken identity that'll be corrected as soon as Galt's in custody. But you're right." She retrieved a shiny object from her blazer pocket and held it out to him.

It was the key to her hotel room. He lifted his head, a question in his eyes.

"Keep him in your sights while I find a pay phone. Then shadow me until the police get here, in case he wakes up. I'll go down to Scotland Yard; you go on to my hotel. I'll meet you there as soon as I'm through." She registered his hesitation. "What's wrong?"

"Wouldn't it be safer if I went back to the bedsit?"

For the first time since he'd jumped into the cart with her, he'd glimpsed the vulnerability underneath her aura of competence. "I'd…kind of like to have you close by tonight. If that's all right with you."

He had nodded, aware that the faint hope that had lightened his heart the night before--when she had saved his life, offered to act as his emissary to the Earl of Claridge, and kissed him--had gained in intensity.

In her room at the Princess Augusta he prodded the bandage around his wound in an effort to assess the damage. No way to tell if the stitches had opened, but at least there didn't seem to be any renewed bleeding. Astonishing. By all accounts he should have been flat on his back and writhing in pain. Where he had found the strength to parry Galt's attack, let alone best and subdue him?

A rhetorical question, of course. Laura had been in trouble. He would discover in himself the muscle of ten men, more, no matter what his actual physical condition, whenever that was the case.

Taking stock for the first time since he'd gone on the run, he'd gazed into the mirror. His hair: greasy, tangled, lank. His face: gaunt, covered by unsightly stubble. His clothes were stiff with filth and he knew he must have stunk to high heaven. Not quite the personally fastidious, elegant Steele to whom Laura was accustomed. However, there ought to be plenty of opportunity, given the speed with which Scotland Yard usually worked, to set himself to rights before she returned.

Evidently her thought process was identical to his. When he opened the door to her knock a few hours later, she was laden with parcels. One of these contained men's pajamas, two pairs of briefs, a shirt and a couple of disposable razors. "I see you've anticipated me," she commented drily when she handed him the latter items.

"There was an extra among your things in the bathroom. I didn't think you'd mind."

"I don't." She reached up to touch his freshly shaven cheek. Her eyes were very soft. "Just making sure you don't use my razor tomorrow morning. It nicks the blade."

The contents of the second bag proved to be cotton bandage material, a square of down lint, and some antibiotic ointment. "Let's take a look at you," she said.

In the bathroom he unfastened the Princess Augusta's generic, unisex, terrycloth bathrobe and lowered himself a trifle uncertainly to the lid of the commode. There he remained very quiet under her hands while she tended his wound. She was gentle but efficient, as she always was in such circumstances; from her hair arose the scent of flowers. It required all the self-control he could muster not to remember, to imagine, the sensation of holding her in his arms again, but he did it.

"There." She patted the tight new bandage with satisfaction. "You were right; it didn't bleed. No redness or swelling that I could see. The stitches held pretty well, too, in spite of your reckless disregard for your own safety. I'd say you're going to be fine, Mr. Steele." She got to her feet. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, the pang that smote him at the loss of her physical proximity. "Order something from room service, if you're hungry. I'm going to take a shower."

Four months ago that statement would've elicited from him some smart remark about joining her. Impossible tonight, with the gulf still yawning between them. He'd slipped wordlessly from the bathroom.

When she emerged at last, it was in pajamas, an ensemble Myrna Loy might have worn: a pink satin jacket, trimmed in white, matching pants, like menswear cut down to complement her perfect little body. Lord, but it was hard to tear his eyes from her, to feign concentration on the dreary black and white movie he'd tuned in at random, a failed attempt to distract himself from images of her, just beyond the door, more beautiful even than his fond imagination had painted her all these months apart.

The woman to whom he thought he'd bidden a final farewell, at least in his mind. The one from whom he'd separated himself by over five thousand miles. Yet one who was nevertheless here, rescuing him from trouble, taking his part, caring for him, without a trace of the resentment he so richly deserved from her.

His discomfort increased a hundredfold when he saw that she was heading for the other side of the bed. He'd only stretched out on top of the covers, and scrambled up at her approach. Did he look as foolish as he felt, vacillating in the middle of the room? No doubt he did.

He found that Laura was gazing at him quizzically. "Where are you going?"

"Chair?" And he scooped up the pillow he'd just vacated.

"Come back here." She patted the mattress beside her. "There's plenty of room. A lot more," she added, a glint of laughter in her dark eyes, "than in that double sleeping bag you brought along on the trip to Da Nada three years ago."

Awkwardly he crawled in beside her. For some reason the disparity in the size of their physiques seemed more pronounced than it ever had before; he felt himself all arms and legs, huge, his height unmanageable in his determination not to impinge on her personal space. Laura, on the other hand, was completely at ease, if the way she settled herself down was an indicator.

She handed him the remote he'd dropped in his haste a few minutes ago. "Are you still watching this?"

"Not really." He shut off the television. "We can have the lights off, if you'd like."

"Up to you, Mr. Steele."

In the darkness he worked to compose himself, physically and emotionally. She must have guessed at his turmoil, for her voice carried a hint of amusement as she said, "Relax. We're sleeping together, not _sleeping_ together."

That was the Laura he knew, forthrightly calling attention to the elephant in the room with them. Oddly enough, her words had the effect she'd intended. His rigid muscles unknotted; he allowed himself to sink a little more deeply into the mattress. And somehow the attraction of her warmth and softness was no longer a danger to be avoided, but a consolation to be sought. He let out a long sigh.

"I was right about Scotland Yard, by the way," she went on. "You're in the clear. In fact, you and I are going to be heroes for capturing Galt. We might turn that to your advantage later, though right now I'm not sure how." Her fingertips brushed his cheek again, as they had when she'd first arrived. "And, oh, yes: thanks for saving my life out there tonight."

"Merely returning the favor."

"I knew you'd say that."

The unselfconsciousness with which she'd touched him just now freed him from the constraints that had hitherto bound him. He turned on his side, facing her. "May I ask you a question?" In the dim light he could make out her nod. "Laura…why are you here?"

"Here, here? Or in London, here?"

"Here. In London."

He didn't have to see her to know that her brows were knit together in the little frown that--he could admit it, couldn't he?—he loved. "I had a feeling you were in trouble, nagged me for weeks. I tried to ignore it because I was so angry I could've killed you. But it wouldn't let up. Neither would Mildred. Turned out my instincts were on target, just like always. A fact I suggest you file away for future reference, Mr. Steele."

"Selling me short, as usual, Miss Holt. The truth is I have nothing but the profoundest respect for your instincts. And it grows daily." There was an even more difficult question he'd set himself to explore with her; it took a moment to summon the nerve to put it out there. "If I were to ask you whether part of your reason for coming was to fetch to me home…how would you answer?"

"Oh, I don't know." She sounded cautious, guarded. "Maybe tell you yes, it was? What would you say to that?"

"I don't know. Most likely that I'm a bloody ignorant ingrate who doesn't deserve a second chance. But who wants one. Badly."

They gazed at each other, their expressions indistinct in the dark room. He lacked the courage to risk the illumination that switching on the lamp would bring. Nor did Laura make any move to do so.

"And your answer would be?" he'd prompted.

She was quiet for some time.

Then he'd heard her slow intake of breath. "Hypothetically speaking, of course, I'd say--" She'd paused, shaking her head. "To hell with hypotheticals. Los Angeles is where you belong. And, yes…I want you to come home."

In an alleyway in Belgravia ten months later, her words, and what he'd later learned she meant by them, was as plain to him as if she were there, repeating them in her lovely low voice. Forgiveness he'd craved, but didn't have the guts to ask for. Affection--love--he hadn't destroyed. Relinquishment of the hurt she'd suffered, though no one, him least of all, would have blamed her if she'd spurned him. And unconditional acceptance back into her life, which she hadn't withheld for a second since then, not even in the worst situations.

Hard to credit, but she had smoothed every obstacle that could have blocked the path back to her. Had he truly never realized it before this moment? For a man who prided himself on the skill with which he read people, he was so incredibly dense.

For hadn't he been then in the same position she was now? It was for her good that he'd taken to his heels and fled last May, just as she had done it for his good four days ago. Sick with having been the spanner in the works, wreaking havoc on the business, as when he'd lost the agency license, or it appeared as if he had. Fearful that he would continue to blunder into newer, ever more creative ways of disappointing her. He'd left her not because he didn't love her, but because he did. But he'd been a lot more callous than she in executing his fight.

Los Angeles is where you belong, she'd said. I want you to come home. She'd journeyed almost six thousand miles to tell him so.

She had done it for him. Could he do it for her?

He could try, at any rate.

His gaze made a final circuit of the mews. Then he whipped smartly about and began to walk, slowly at first, then briskly—a man with a purpose, with somewhere to go.

'Los Angeles is where you belong'. On that he agreed with her. And it was his turn to pursue her over the six thousand miles that divided them to convince her of it, if that's what it took.

After all…he owed her one. One, at the very least.

TO BE CONTINUED


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

It wasn't until she got up on Sunday morning that Laura was able to admit it to herself. She had been waiting since Thursday for Remington to walk in the door on Saturday night.

Where the idea had sprung from, she couldn't have said. Maybe because he had a return ticket from London for that date, which he might feel compelled to use, instead of wasting the money? That was a long shot, unless he'd undergone some sort of overnight personality change. She was the thrifty one; he was the one who'd found it perfectly reasonable to spend hundreds on a BMW convertible in France so he could re-enact a ten minute sequence from _To Catch A Thief_. Poor use of logic on her part. She couldn't imagine what on earth had possessed her.

All the same, the stubborn, irrational little hope that he was on his way to Los Angeles persisted. It flickered bravely through Thursday, which she spent at home, ostensibly recovering from jet lag and three nights in a row with little sleep, but actually postponing the moment when she would have to start explaining Remington's absence. She felt it buoying her up in the office on Friday in the face of Mildred's worried questions. And it sustained her on Saturday while she plowed determinedly through the stacks of work she'd brought home, schooling her wayward thoughts to concentrate on what was in front of her, filtering out treacherous memories and emotions that would reduce her to a soggy mess if she let them get the upper hand.

In an uncharacteristic concession to superstition, she'd forbidden herself to watch the clock. Even so, as Saturday afternoon wore into evening, her hands grew cold and clammy and her stomach began to churn. The British Airways flight he might be on was scheduled to land at LAX at seven. If the flight were on time, he could be as home as early as eight-thirty or nine. If it were delayed, he might not arrive until eleven or even midnight. There was a five-hour window opportunity before her. She decided to keep on working. If she saw him, she saw him. If not, well….

It was after two-thirty when she finally bowed to defeat and dragged herself over to the living room sofa. There she turned off the light and curled up, longing for sleep to blot out consciousness for even a few hours, a respite from thinking and feeling.

She got more than she'd bargained for in that respect. Exhausted, she would doze off, only to start up because she thought she'd heard a key in the lock or the slam of the door. Over and over it happened. Once—and this was by far the most difficult—she was sure Remington was bending over her and shaking her by the shoulder. In an excess of the most amazing joy she'd ever felt, she'd flung herself towards him…and discovered she was on her feet in the center of the dark living room, the stillness of the apartment around her unbroken.

Small wonder that when morning finally came, a cold, leaden misery had her in its grip, the extinguishment of the last spark of hope.

Numbly she went about her routine, such as it was. Jog, shower, wash her hair. Spread out the Sunday _Times_ with a cup of coffee; clamp down fiercely against flashbacks of Remington reviewing the movie reviews for her in his inimitable humorous drawl. Cart a load of wash down to the laundry room. Case files and financial documents were strewn about the dining room; she would plunge back into them shortly. Wouldn't she?

She surveyed it, the paperwork that represented the nuts and bolts of her business. Remington Steele Investigations, the product of seven years of hard work, the major accomplishment of her life, her pride and joy. While it would always be a source of pride, it was no longer the primary source of her joy. At least it hadn't been for the past two months. Marriage to Remington had produced the first rival claimant on her attention that the agency had ever had.

But their marriage was over. Remington wasn't coming back; this was to be her life. It was time she acknowledged it and turned her focus on forgetting him, the sooner, the better. She could do it. She could live without him. After all, it was the dissolving of a partnership, a contract, wasn't it? And not really cutting out a part of herself? Even though she was shuddering right now with actual physical pain?

It was only because the door to the apartment suddenly opened that she was able to straighten up from her hunched position and loosen the arms she had wrapped around herself.

Remington let himself in.

Her shocked gasp was amplified in the dead quiet of the room. So was the jingle of his keys as he gripped them more tightly in his hand.

"Hi," he said. The greeting was as simple and natural as if he'd stepped out to the gourmet grocer's, as he often did on Sunday to pick up ingredients for their evening feast.

Her heart was doing its customary squeeze and thump at the sight of him after a period away; her brain, on the other hand, had frozen into stupidity. "Hi." Funny how matter-of-fact her reply sounded without any effort at all on her part. "I…uh…wasn't expecting you." And with an inane little gesture, she indicated the disorder in the living room, the rumpled sheet on the couch, the twisted shape of her pillow.

"Flew in through Chicago. The quickest way here, strangely enough."

He lingered by the door, looking at her. She had to repress a wild impulse to remove herself from the range of that grave blue gaze, to set about straightening the couch, or collecting the scattered paperwork from the dining room table, or scurrying off to scrub the bathroom grout—anything, anything to hide from this excruciating moment.

Instead she remained where she was, twisting her hands together. He didn't have any luggage with him, she realized for the first time. Her heart lurched again, but now it was from dread. What did it mean? That he wasn't here to stay? That he'd come only to pack up the rest of his things? And all he wanted now was for her to get out of his way?

With a tremor in her voice she said, "I was going to try calling you at the St. John. I took the check from Daniel's estate with me by mistake when I left. I didn't know what you'd want me to do with it." Yes, indeed: an ordinary couple on an ordinary day.

"Put it towards Windsor Square, of course, just as we planned. What else would we do with it?"

"I don't know. I thought--" She trailed off.

"You thought--? What?"

That you were gone for good, was what she was thinking. That I'd never see you again. That I'd done it at last, pushed you too far, and that you would never make your way back to me, or even want to try.

"I don't know," was what she said.

He was turning away from her; he had opened the door and slipped out. Her heart slammed against her ribs again in painful strokes. But he reappeared almost immediately with a suitcase in each hand. When he had closed the door and turned back to her, she saw how weariness had etched lines around his eyes and left dark shadows beneath them.

Her own eyes were beginning to sting. She blinked hard against the moisture in them. "So…you're home?"

"Yes, I am."

"For good?"

"For good. You didn't honestly think I'd give you up so easily, did you?" The words were gentle, without an edge. Suitcases clutched in his hands, he stood peering at her.

Even though his outline was becoming indistinct, she was doing the same thing. Since it didn't give her the answer she needed, she had to blurt out the question. "What do you want me to call you?"

With a silent snort of laughter, he closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "You could try my name, Laura. It's yours, too, after all. Part of it, anyway."

"Remington Steele," she whispered, and moved a step towards him.

"That's right. Remington Steele."

To her infinite annoyance, she found that she couldn't go any farther; the tears, the first ones she'd shed since London, were completely blinding her. She tried to hide them by turning her head away from him, but had to give it up as useless. She simply put a hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs, and wept.

There was a thud as the bags hit the floor. An instant later he was across the room and had her in his arms.

"Laura, don't," he said, and she heard his voice crack. "Don't cry. I couldn't have stayed away, no matter what I said to make you think I would. It was only to get through that _reasonableness_ of yours, to make you mad, to make you fight for us, the way you wouldn't that time we lost our license…Ah, damn. Don't." His hands were stroking her hair, pressing her head against his chest. "Don't. It's breaking my heart."

"Okay," she sobbed, and tried to stop, which made her cry all the harder.

He cradled her against him until the worst of the storm was over. Then he fumbled in his pocket. "Here." Tilting her face up, he began to mop her eyes with something which, by the scent of cologne on it, she identified as his hanky. "All right? Okay?"

She nodded and exhaled a deep, shuddering sigh. "Okay," she tried to say, but never got it out, because Remington had cupped his other hand behind her head and covered her open mouth with his own.

Where before it was her sight that had betrayed her, now it was her hearing: she found she couldn't make out the words he was murmuring as an accompaniment to his kisses. Then she concluded it that didn't matter, since the tenderness in his voice was getting through, loud and clear. As for herself, she knew she was clinging to him like a woman whose greatest treasure had been restored to her, but she didn't care. She hadn't ruined them. He was here…and he was still her Remington.

Finally they had to separate. He rested his forehead against hers briefly before he straightened. As he did, the shadows of fatigue seemed more pronounced, somehow, and Laura reached up to caress his cheek. "You look tired."

He acknowledged the observation with a wry quirk of his lips--approaching a smile, but not quite getting there. "It appears I'm out of the habit of being able to sleep alone."

The look in his eyes made her want to cry again. "Me, too," she faltered. Only two words, but they said it all, so she repeated them. "Me, too."

"Of course…I didn't mean it was only sleep I've been missing."

"Me neither."

Hand on her shoulders, he gathered her in again. "Well, then, my love," he said softly, "we've some lost time to make up for, haven't we?"

* * *

As was fitting, they spent the rest of the afternoon in bed.

At the outset, they were all haste and eagerness, wasting not a precious second in further talk, their coming together delayed only as long as it took them to get to the bedroom, tumble to the mattress, to remove or unfasten what clothing was necessary. Laura heard herself whimpering in her need to be close to him as she struggled with his shirt buttons, the zipper of his jeans; she almost couldn't believe it was her. As for him, he caught her to him ardently, his hands and mouth everywhere on the bare skin he uncovered, and that was so good, it was what she'd wanted every moment of their separation, she could never have enough of him.

Then, unaccountably, and with a discipline unusual in him, he slowed the pace. He seemed determined to take his time, to hold himself back, to spin out the moment as long as they could stand it. He was in general a considerate, unselfish lover, but this was a facet of him she'd never experienced before—almost as if he was intent on re-discovering and re-claiming every inch of her with his eyes and fingertips and lips. She didn't bother to examine it too closely, but went with it, with him, reveling in the sensation of being at the absolute center of his attention. And, when the inevitable happened, and they both lost control, it was on the same glorious high that it always was. Afterward he settled her within the curve of his right arm, just as he always did. Still tangled together, they dropped straight into exhausted slumber.

That was why, when she awoke hours later, she was disconcerted to find that not only had she turned away from him in sleep, they were no longer touching. It was such an odd state of affairs for them that her spirits plummeted. Had she pulled away—or had he pushed her from him? Suddenly the weight of what they had said in Menton, as well as everything still unsaid since, was suffocating her. They hadn't resolved a single issue yet; would sex be a bridge between them, or just an additional complication?

She turned over to face him.

He was lying on his back, hands clasped together behind his neck. His eyes crinkled a little at the corners when they met hers, but otherwise, he didn't stir. "Hello. Had a good rest, have we?"

"I feel like a new woman. How about you?"

There was any number of witty double entendres he could've spun off from her remark, but, oddly, he refrained. "Reborn. In the figurative sense, of course."

Ordinarily she would have moved over and put her arms around him without thinking twice about it. Today, oppressed by doubts, she looked at him almost shyly. "I don't want to take anything for granted here…but did we just make up?"

There was that faint smile again, the one that touched only his eyes. "I believe you know the answer to that."

"I never even told you I'm sorry."

"Actually, you did."

Her forehead creased in puzzlement as she mentally replayed the scene when he'd walked through the door. "I don't think I--"

"Not in so many words. When you cried, Laura. All these years together, and I've seen you cry like that—really cry—only one other time. It said everything, I think."

"Except how stupid and wrong I was to--do what I did."

"Yes, you were."

Usually he was much more willing than this to let her off the hook. Though she knew she was the chief offender, she couldn't quite suppress a flicker of indignation. "You don't have to agree with such enthusiasm."

"Why not? Who knows it better than I do, eh? I've been in those shoes. Twice, in fact. Twice as stupid, twice as wrong."

"When you left after we lost our license?" He nodded. "And when Major Descoines framed you for murder."

"Especially then. You told me in no uncertain terms how wrong I was to think you'd have been better off without me. Now the shoe's on the other foot. I know you were trying to do what you considered best for me. But there's no possible way your leaving me could be for my good, ever. Certainly it wasn't this time. So don't do it to me again."

It wasn't often that he used that tone of command, but when he did, it never failed to get her attention. Chastened, she made herself look straight at him. "I won't."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"I promise, as well." There was an extra dimension in his intensity, a resolve she hadn't glimpsed in him before. "From now on, I'm putting my foot down before this sort of nonsense gets out of hand. Better get used to it. And I expect you to do the same for me. Otherwise, we'll be in the same boat as our parents before we know it, history repeating itself." Suddenly a hesitant note crept into his voice. "We're better together, aren't we? I think we both knew it almost from the very beginning. And now that we're married, the bond's that much stronger. Nothing makes sense when we're apart. Not to me, at least. Does it to you? Laura?"

She laid her hand along the side of his face. "No." Recalling the past few days without him, she felt her eyes burn the way they had earlier, but this time she didn't mind if he saw tears in them. "Not a second went by that I didn't miss you. Even though I was convinced I was doing the right thing. I wanted you so badly, it hurt…but I didn't know how to work it out any other way, you changing your name. How could I stand in the way of you becoming what you might have been—you might have had--as a Chalmers?"

"But I already am what I want to be," he said slowly. "No greater achievements to aspire to, eh? And they give me everything I need. The illustrious detective, Remington Steele. And--far more important--Laura Steele's husband." And he turned his mouth into her hand so that he could kiss her palm.

There was a pause while they purposely prolonged and savored the moment.

"And Robbie's party?" she said at length, much lighter of heart. "How did it go?"

"I didn't attend."

"Why not?

"There wasn't much point, really. I'd already told Alix and her uncle that I was declining to change my name. I turned down the trust as well, by the way. We'll talk about it later."

"Was your Aunt Lillian very disappointed?"

He hesitated. "Relieved would be a better description." The bleak look, the one that always hid his feelings when someone hurt him, was in place. "Mrs. Dalgleish tried to—ah--dissuade me from asserting myself as a Chalmers, shall we say."

That deliberate substitution for his aunt's name told her what she needed to know. She also knew that it was too soon to probe further, so all she said was, "Her loss, then. But what about the others? Your second cousins, Ralph Chalmers' great-grandchildren?"

'Ah, Laura." He let out a long sigh and shook his head. "What does it matter? The money'll pass to John Carmichael, if I have any say over it; his mother can even call him John Chalmers, if he'll let her. I didn't care enough to ask. My only concern was coming home to you, if I could."

"And Robbie? The two of you were becoming good friends."

"It's possible we still can be. I suppose it depends on how much influence his mother has over him."

She knew how little time he normally wasted on regrets and might-have-beens, but had the overwhelming urge to comfort him anyway. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I don't understand why it always ends like this for you. Your dreams of family seem to keep blowing up in your face."

"On the contrary. I have my memories of Daniel--a better father than I could've imagined, when all's said and done. There's Mildred to mother me when necessary, and Abigail to mother-in-law me, and Donald and Frances and the kids. And there's you: my wife, who made the rest possible by loving me. All the family I need." He pulled her to him and kissed her.

His desire--and readiness to act on it--became evident, and Laura raised her eyebrows in appreciation. "Is that supposed to convince me?" she asked. She couldn't help laughing a little.

"Your lilting laughter. How I've missed it. " He sighed again, but this time it was from contentment.

He rolled over with her; she put her arms around him, hugging him close. But then, even in the act of fitting her body to his, she hung back. It shouldn't be this easy, some part of her was insisting. Wasn't there more she should say? Wasn't there more he should? Could they really patch it up this quickly, before discussing it from every angle, the way they usually did?

She held him off a bit with her hands on his shoulders and felt him immediately still. She didn't know it, but her eyes gazing up into his were wide with an uncertainty he seldom saw there. "We're okay, then." Though she tried to make a statement of it, bluffing a confidence she didn't feel, it sounded more like a question.

It was the kind of self-exposure they both used to consider a risky move. But she was reassured by the way his face softened before he even spoke. He was taking the measure of her vulnerability and need, as she had done for him in London and Menton, and giving her back the same understanding. "Come now, Laura," he said gently. "We're much better than merely okay, wouldn't you say? No need to think otherwise."

She let out a long breath she hadn't even known she was holding. "Okay." Slowly she ran her hands up and over his shoulders, over the smooth skin of his back, then lower, lower, in the way he loved for her to do. "Then come here and let me welcome you home…Remington Steele," she whispered.

And Remington smiled.

* * *

Much later, the Steeles were indulging in a good old-fashioned bask in the afterglow.

"I forgot to tell you," said Remington. He was playing desultorily with a tress of her hair, winding it between his fingers. "We'll have to go back to the Villa Montreuil. Not right away, but sometime before winter."

"Why? It should be sold by then, shouldn't it?

"I asked Madame Beaubien to delay the listing for the time being. There's enough money to keep it running for a good while yet, and to pay the Trottiers to take care of it. I want us to spend some time there, before we sell, enjoy everything we missed this time around."

"Mm, I like that. Another opportunity for insight to the man you used to be on the Riviera?" She gazed up into his eyes with a provocative little smile.

"You're welcome to try, at any rate." He smirked back at her the way he used to in the old days, enigmatic, challenging. "But I promise you he's long gone."

Tipping her head back, she studied him without speaking. It went on so long that he stirred uneasily. "What?"

"It's funny," she mused. "I don't understand why I didn't see it til now. Of all the names you've gone by, John seems to be the only one you used with multiple variations. Yet it's the one that suits you the least."

"How can that even be possible, when I look just like my grandfather?"

"Doesn't matter. It's just not _you_, no matter what surname you put with it: Murrell…Robie…or Case."

An irritated frown etched itself between his brows. He'd retired the first alias, but the other two were particular favorites, especially the latter. "Yes, well, since you're opposed to it, I'll choose something else next time we go undercover. Walter Burns, for instance." It was time for a new, more challenging, round of the movie game. The frown gave way to a twinkle of anticipation. "And that would make you - ?" he quizzed.

She wore a smug expression as she snapped off her reply. "Tess Harding."

"Walter Eckland?"

"Rose Sayer."

"Jimmy Monkley?"

"Terry Randall." When he opened his mouth to correct her, she forestalled him. "Come, come, Mr. Steele. Even you can't possibly imagine we could fool anyone with a name like Sylvia Scarlett."

"Touché." He laughed down at her. "A fine example of the student surpassing the teacher. Excellent work, my love."

She rubbed her cheek against his chest and sighed when she felt his lips touch her hair. "Remington."

"Hm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything."

"Before, when you first came in, when you…when we…well, you were trying to get me to stop crying. And you were saying something at one point, but I couldn't hear you."

"Didn't you? Probably just as well."

"Don't you want to tell me?"

"You really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

He continued to hesitate. "You'll hate me for it."

"I doubt that very much."

"All right, but don't say I didn't warn you. I said--" He broke off, looking slightly sheepish. No, more than that--was he actually _blushing_? "It went something like this. Perhaps I'd better whisper it to you." He cleared his throat, dropped his voice and segued into the brogue he used on only the rarest of occasions. "Hush now, me darlin'. Me beauty. Me angel. Me lovely little love…"

Her own face growing hot, she shifted in his arms.

"See? I told you you'd hate it," he said resignedly.

"It's not that. You told me you don't care for 'darling' as a term of endearment."

"Ah, but that's from you to me. From me to you is a different matter altogether, especially when there's a touch of the Irish in it. 'Darlin' ', not 'darling'. You see?"

"I see. And the rest of it—we'll chalk it up to the heat of the moment, I take it? A momentary lapse, never to be mentioned between us?"

"Precisely. I assure you it won't happen again."

"Oh, I don't know." She slowly dimpled up at him. "I wouldn't want you to give it up altogether. With a little practice, I think I could get to like it, being your 'beauty'."

With a glance at him over her shoulder, she turned onto her side with her back to him. It was all the invitation he needed to spoon behind her. For a while they just drifted in a cocoon of contentment. Laura let herself luxuriate in the pleasure of being in his arms again, his larger frame enveloping hers completely, his chin fitted into the hollow between her neck and shoulder…

Suddenly she had a thought, so momentous, yet so infinitely right, that she sucked in her breath. He said, concerned, "Laura?"

"It just hit me. There's another way to keep your grandfather's name alive! When we have a baby, if it's a boy, we'll christen him John Lloyd."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could call them back. Whatever had possessed her? They'd only talked about children in the abstract, never as a specific, and not once since they'd gotten married. Idiot, she scolded herself, and tensed a little, waiting for his reaction.

It wasn't long in coming. "Don't be absurd, Laura," he said. "There are far too many Johns in this family as it is." He spoke lightly, revealing nothing; she was glad she couldn't see his face.

But then his right hand, which had been curved loosely around her breast, inched downward, coming to rest on her stomach in just the place where the baby-who-could-be might someday lie. His breath tickled her ear as turned his head to whisper into it.

"We'll save it for his middle name, eh?"

TO BE CONTINUED


	13. Epilogue

Epilogue

From the bathroom where she was putting the last touches to her makeup, Laura heard the click of the snooze alarm coming on.

Her reflection in the mirror grinned saucily, waiting for the scenario to unfold the same way it did every morning at seven o'clock. Her ingenious strategy for shocking her husband awake, since, if left to his own devices, he would rarely rise before ten.

First, the voices of the morning DJ team, Tyler and Austin, whose lame humor passed at KROT-AM for witty repartee. Or, alternatively, KROT's idea of music. She kind of liked it—at least it didn't offend her sensibilities-- but Remington hated it with an outspoken, passionate hatred.

Next, the sound of the flat of a hand landing smack on top of the clock radio to cut off the noise.

Right on schedule. Her grin widened.

What should have followed was the repertoire with which he habitually greeted daybreak, a range that consisted of anything from muffled groans of protest to muttered curses and put-upon sighs. Normally these wouldn't have cost her a moment's anxiety; she'd learned long ago that he was a reluctant morning person, at best. She'd never paid much attention when she was exposed to it in the old days, figuring that coddling would only encourage him. More than three months of marriage had inured her to it completely.

But when she heard him give a sharp yelp, the makeup implements dropped from her hand. "Remington--?"

The windows in their bedroom at the Windsor Square house faced south and west, which made it a lot lighter than the Rossmore apartment had been in the morning. She didn't need to open the curtains to see that he was easing himself gingerly into a sitting position, his face twisted in pain. "Damn," he breathed.

"Let me take a look." She settled on the edge of the bed with no idea that the grimace she was wearing was a twin of his.

She switched on the lamp and drew back the sheet. The bruises inflicted on him in last night's altercation were revealed in all their dubious glory. Shading from red to black-purple, they were peppered across his chest and shoulders and about his midsection. She probed one experimentally. "Does that hurt?"

He winced. "Only when you do that."

"That guy hit you a lot harder than I thought he did."

"Mere love taps, compared with what I dished out to him." He was breathing more evenly now.

"That goes without saying. Ice pack, Mr. Steele?"

"No need. Just stiffness from sleeping the wrong way. Moving around ought to help. In fact--" a suggestive grin lit his face "--I can think of a move or two that would be particularly therapeutic." Taking her unawares, he pulled her down until she was lying in his arms.

"Miraculous recovery?" she suggested, laughing up at him.

"A testimony to the excellent nursing I've received at your hands."

"Which must mean I'm an angel of mercy after all."

She was touching on an argument they'd had the night before, while she was assessing the extent of the injuries he'd sustained after their lighting raid on a certain wall safe. Two months of steady work on the Demerest case had led them to a ring of international financiers who were trying to undermine key American businesses by destabilizing their stock. In the act of departing the estate of a suspect, Jürgen Eitschl, they'd been waylaid by a couple of guards. Remington had reacted with an unusually macho possessiveness over her; a needless confrontation, one that required all their ingenuity to escape, was the result. She'd taxed him with it on the way home, where she'd lost her temper and snapped at him for whining. "On the contrary, I'm a splendid patient, uncomplaining and grateful," he'd protested. "You don't realize it because you're such a mercurial nurse. I never know what version I'm going to get. Which is it this time, eh? The angel of mercy, dispensing kisses as well as bandages? The stern taskmaster, scolding me for taking foolhardy risks while grudgingly tending my wounds? Or the detective, inquiring absent-mindedly after my welfare before leaving me in Mildred's hands--or, worse, to fend for myself?"

He understood the reference perfectly and twinkled back at her. "Not quite. You haven't kissed me yet."

"A situation easily rectified. Come here."

Bending over her, he complied. At length his hand began to travel slowly down her bare thigh. "Is this what you're wearing to work?" he murmured against her lips.

"Attire appropriate for my cover. What's a jogger without running shorts? Or a Walkman?"

"The same thing as a photographer without a camera, I'd imagine—easy to identify as an undercover detective."

"You capture Eitschl and Mihalec on film, I get them on tape. As ingenious as the plan you thought up to nab Thorpe and Keever, back in the day." She nudged him. "Let me up."

He watched while she collected her purse and packed up her briefcase. "We're following the script we outlined to Mihalec? Separate cars, separate arrival times?"

"Right. It'll be easier if I scope out the park first. I'll call you from the Rabbit as soon I get there. Assuming Mihalec can maneuver Eitschl into position, you should have a clear shot of them."

"You've got to admire Mihalec. It takes a certain amount of intestinal fortitude to expose an organization as far-reaching as Eitschl's."

"More like self-preservation. He knows if he doesn't, the SEC'll put him away for a long time for his shenanigans on the trade floor," she said drily as she crossed to him again. "Don't forget, if you call Fred before you take your shower, he'll be here by the time you're done blow-drying your hair." She leaned over and kissed him, then made as if to straighten.

But Remington captured the end of her high pony tail and tugged on it gently until her face was on a level with his again. Instead of the kiss she was expecting, he gazed at her with a seriousness she hadn't expected. "Be careful today."

Eyebrows lifted in surprise, she kissed him again. "You, too, Mr. Steele."

It wasn't until she was halfway to the park in which they would execute their plan that she remembered that the agency gun was still in her purse.

The gun had been a point of contention between them ever since they'd moved to Windsor Square. Remington adamantly refused to have it in the house when they weren't home, not even under lock and key, despite the state-of-the-art alarm system he'd had installed. "A thief breaking in and making off with our valuables in one thing," he'd said. "A gun is something else again. We're not taking a chance on arming one more member of Los Angeles' thug population, Laura."

There was no budging him from so staunch a conviction. It had reduced them to carting the gun back and forth to the agency whenever they took it along on a stakeout. And right now she was stuck with no options for its disposition while she pursued their current case. She couldn't very well take it with her while she jogged; stowing it in the Rabbit's glove box was an even worse example of pushing their luck than leaving it at home. The only choice was to double back to Century City and drop it at the office.

So intent was she on getting back on the road that she didn't notice the light under the door to her office at first. When she did, she was halfway across the reception area, conscious of nothing out of the ordinary, presuming Mildred had overlooked it on her way out yesterday afternoon.

The sight of a tall, broad-shouldered form at the drawer of one of the filing cabinets disabused her of the idea even as it froze her in the center of the room.

Only for a second, but already too late to retreat. The intruder had whirled on her, was greeting her…by name. "Laura Steele. How's it goin'?"

It was the man she and Remington had known as Tony Roselli.

Instantaneously her gaze swept her office, reviewing its contents. Stacks of file folders on the floor. Atop one of the cabinets lay a heavy duty flashlight. Nothing else out of place. Roselli himself, clad in a dark uniform of some sort, eyes framed by wire-rimmed aviators, his hair closely cropped. His easy stance belied the fact that he was watching her narrowly, a snake before a rabbit hole.

Still, the ploy was worth a try. She cut her eyes left and feinted towards the door to Remington's office, then broke to the right and the door through which she'd entered

Useless. He wasn't as fast as Remington, but fast enough for a man his size, and what he lacked in speed he made up in power. He used it to drag her backwards, twisting her left arm behind her, bending his right arm so that his elbow was over her throat. "Not bad," he said. She could've sworn it was amusement she heard from him. "You really are a pro. Course I saw you use that move in Dublin, so I knew it was coming. Those were some good times, weren't they, Dublin?"

But when she took a breath to reply, the arm at her throat jerked a warning. "I wouldn't scream if I was you, because then I'd have to kill you. You're such a little thing, it'd be easy. I could snap your neck like a twig." And he slowly flexed his right hand once, twice, as if to underline his point.

Drawing on all her years of training and experience, she blocked out his voice. Don't get sucked in, she commanded herself, don't be stung by the insult or intimidated by the threat. She concentrated on remaining pliable in his grip, unresisting: an effective ruse for lulling a captor into relaxing his guard.

It worked; she acted. Dropped swiftly into a crouch, was out of his arms. The next moves would be automatic. Bob upright, the tight, controlled pivot, smash the heel of her hand upward against his nose. The sharp elbows driven into his mid-section, the knee to the groin. They were instinctual, had been for years, the physical skills she'd learned, the ones that had leveled the playing field for her against the bad guys, so that she could not only defend herself against attack, but take the offensive when necessary. Along with the superb physical condition she maintained and her resourcefulness and ingenuity, these were the ways she'd compensated over the years for the natural disadvantages she faced as a woman competing in a man's world. No reason to worry that they would fail her this time…

Thunder crashed, reverberating. In the fraction of a second it took her to realize that it wasn't an external sound at all, but from inside her head, a flare of white light stole her vision. The light was succeeded by a wave of blackness, rushing towards her, thick and cold. She was falling into it, falling, frightened down to her very bones of it, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself, even though she reached out in a futile attempt for something to break her descent.

Just before she hit the bottom of the dark place she feared, it seemed someone called her name. Remington? she thought. But then the fall was over, and she was immobilized, alone in the void. And in it was no seeing or hearing, thinking or feeling, at all.

FINIS

Coming next

STEELE INSEPARABLE PART IV: "Steele in the Shadows"

When Roselli threatens Laura, the Steeles struggle with Remington's impulse towards retaliation.


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